


"the quickest way to a man's heart is through his stomach" -ancient chinese proverb i think

by corviiy



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anxiety Attacks, Gay, Homelessness, M/M, Multi, New York City, Past Child Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Trans Character, Trans Male Character, theres probably more i cant think of atm, this was originally gonna be a comic but it got, way too long
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-06
Updated: 2017-04-21
Packaged: 2018-07-29 19:17:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 28,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7696138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/corviiy/pseuds/corviiy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>--DISCONTINUED - LATEST CHAPTER EXPLAINS WHY--</p><p>karkat vantas, being of somewhat sound mind and body, decides to help out dave, a friend of a friend-friend who appears to be in need. just one night, that couldn't hurt anything. karkat soon after gets an ache to help more, though. </p><p>meanwhile, dave strider is finding the pressures of homelessness increasingly difficult to cope with. it's the middle of winter, the wet season is near, and this begins to bring bad tidings for a street performer who relies on his very intelligent pet cat.</p><p>--DISCONTINUED - LATEST CHAPTER EXPLAINS WHY--</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Okay, Karkat, it’s been fifteen minutes, I don’t think passive-aggressive waiting is the solution to this issue.”   
  
Unfortunately, you think your stepsister may be right. The two of you have been waiting as patiently as you can manage for the last customer to leave the cafe, but the dude isn’t budging. You want to go home, your apron is off, everything is cleaned and stocked for tomorrow, you just wanna eat some msg packed chinese food and crash into your bed.  At first it was irritating, but now it’s edging into awkward territory.   
  
His name is Dave Strider. Mutual friends, distant friends, concert-only friends, but you’ve never been at a place in your life where taking on another serious friendship was something you actively sought to do. After tonight, you’re not sure you ever will be. At least, not for him. He came into the shop six hours ago with his weird little bubble-windowed backpack, asking Nepeta if she minded he let his cat out while he ate.   
  
_ He’s really well behaved. _ Yeah, of course he is, and of course Nepeta let him. He’d ordered two sandwiches, a large water bottle, and some water flavoring packet. The cat wasn’t actually that bad, he stuck close to Dave and slept mostly. Problem was, Dave finished his food in about an hour, then proceeded to sit there doing jack shit for another five. And you mean it. Jack. Shit. No phone, computer, or even a book to be seen, he’d just sat there. Weird, yeah, annoying, definitely, but not grounds to kick him out. Not until now, when the cafe was supposed to close fifteen minutes ago.   
  
Just as you’re about to open your mouth to call it, to actually tell him to beat it because you’re closed, he ushers his pet into it’s carrier and stands up, slinging the catpack onto his back gently.   
  
“Aight, aight, I’m leavin’.” He says, giving an awkward little chuckle. His voice is raspy, kinda soft and only southern in that he’s prone to terrible contractions that make it seem like he’s got a grudge against grammar. It fits him, you think.   
  
None of you speak when he leaves, which really punctuates that awkwardness. When he’s gone, Nep gives a sigh and leans against the counter.    
  
“He’s a weird kid.” She mumbles as you open the drawer across from the cash register and fetch both of your keychains.    
  
“Maybe. I don’t really know him.” You mutter shortly. It’s kind of a lie. You don’t know him intimately, but he’s tight with Jade, Gamzee and John, so sometimes you don’t have a choice but to know him.   
  
“Didn’t he used to date your ex?” She asks, taking her keys and the keys to the building. You snort.   
  
“Which one?” You say, giving a wry smile. It’s not something you think about anymore, really. With Jade it was kind of out of your control; you think she might have a commitment problem because she’d done the same thing to him. Terezi...well, when you were younger you sort of perceived it as him stealing her, but you’re so over that hill and around the bend. She’s not a thing to be stolen, you know that. She does what she wants. None of it matters because you’re still close with both of them. Either way, it’s sort of a rhetorical question, and your step sister takes it as such, walking with you to the door and opening it for you.    
  
She waves you off and turns to lock up, and you immediately start to shiver. Even with the nice layer of padding on your frame and a fluffy wool sweater, December is un-fucking-kind, especially for people who walk everywhere they go. Before you go off, you pull out your phone and take a moment to order some chinese to your address so it won’t be long once you arrive.   
  
The ground is wet, as you walk down the street cold bites at your toes, but vegging out while watching car lights glide over the shiny street surface is a welcome distraction. Normally, if you’re lucky and manage to check out hard enough, it’s like teleportation. You’re suddenly home.   
  
Lady luck is not kissing your ass tonight.   
  
As you approach the second block down from the cafe, you turn and bump right into a stranger. It sets off a chain reaction of events; your cursing is coupled with a weird yowling sound. The stranger stumbles forward like they’re made of old rickety plywood, and the smoke they were working on flies out of their-- _ his _ mouth as he mutters a deflated _ “Aw man” _ .   
  
“Dude watch where you’re fucking going.” You spit as Dave gathers himself and gently pulls his backpack around his torso to check on the cat.   
  
“If ain’t mistaken, you’re the one who bumped into me.” He comments, unzipping the catpack.    
  
“I wouldn’t have bumped into you if your dumb ass was actually walking home and not loitering,  _ again _ . What is it, your kink or something?” You spit, patting yourself out as if he’d left a residue and continuing your walk. He decides to walk idly with you as he coos and coaxes his cat from the carrier.   
  
“I’m going to ignore the fact that you just asked if my kink was loitering and move on if that’s cool with you.” He says, giving you a smirk that makes it obvious that he thinks he is wickedly clever.   
  
“You’re not as witty as you think you are.” You mutter.   
  
“You’re right, but I bet The Mayor is.” His voice goes coddling midway through the sentence, and it confuses you for a second until this large black shorthair comes crawling onto his shoulder.    
  
You can’t be as un-endeared as you want to be. Dave’s kind of a douche, but he seems to adore his cat that’s for damn sure. As made clear by the way he’s talking to it, like he’s just having a casual conversation. This isn’t new to you, he takes the cat everywhere, you just don’t understand why he doesn’t leave it at home. You’re silent for a few minutes, enough to take a few turns and realize that he’s kind of…following you?   
  
“Don’t you have somewhere else to be?” You ask once you get to a crosswalk where you have to stop.   
  
“Nah. Nothin goin’ on tonight, unless you got word of somethin.” He says.   
  
“I mean, you could just go home.” You suggest. “You had an awful long day of sitting on your ass in my cafe, after all. Must be fucking exhausted.” That feels gross. You’ve come far with your anger management, but sometimes you leak a little bit of poison. You don’t mean any harm by it though, and you can guess by his seemingly clueless disposition that he doesn’t mind.   
  
“Nah. Couldn’t afford it tonight.” Is his response. That’s...certainly some kind of response.   
  
“Afford?” You parrot back, eyeing the cat as it shuffles around on Dave’s shoulder, eyes locked on you like it wants to make a pounce.   
  
“Yeah. The hostel I normally stay at. Was either that or a good meal today because of the rain earlier, Mr. Mayor can’t deal so. I chose the latter. Yolo n’ shit.” The words he’s saying are kind of horrifying to you. He’s homeless? You’d have never guessed.   
  
“Why the fuck does the rain have anything to do with if you get to stay at a hostel or eat?”   
  
“Uh, my cats my main gig. I do street performance stuff, he’s trained to do tricks and really this lil dude brings home the bacon--don’t you baby boy,” He goes back into another fit of coddling, effectively distracting the cat from what you’re sure was attack position.   
  
Silence falls between you two again as he ends up holding the cat like a baby, scratching his chin and rubbing his belly. You wonder why Dave does stuff like street performing, and why he doesn’t have a home. You’re sure he has family, if you remember right Kanaya is dating his cousin. Maybe she got tired of his shit and told him to kick rocks, though. Either way, the biting chill of the night and the reality of where he might have to sleep is not lost on you.   
  
“Can you show me some tricks?” You ask, stopping in your tracks and causing him to stop by proxy.    
  
He seems eager to respond to your request. He asks his cat if he’s okay with workin, and the dark ball of fur responds by squirming out of his grasp and landing effortlessly onto the soggy sidewalk. Dave straightens out his posture.    
  
“You don’t like the wet, do you Mr. Mayor?” He asks. In response, the cat flicks water off his paw and bleps, pink tongue jutting out in mock disgust. “Yeah, I thought so. Well maybe you can get less wet if you stand up. Why don’t you stand up and walk?” He says playfully. Like magic, the thing stands upright on its hind legs and walks backwards a few paces. “Good job! Now how about a dance? I bet Karkat would love to dance with an esteemed politician like yourself.”   
  
You physically can’t stop yourself from smiling at least a little bit. The cat walks towards you, then holds out its paw, batting gently at your leg. You glance at Dave, and he gives you a little go-ahead nod, so you bend over and take the cat’s little bean paws in your hands. The Mayor takes a step to your left, a step backwards, a step to the right, and a step forward. You recognize this to be a very simple box waltz, holy shit.   
  
“Man that was a little scandalous, Mr. Mayor. Don’t forget to sit pretty and pray before bed.” Dave says. The cat backs up and sits on it’s hind legs and folds it’s paws in your classic ‘nya’ position, but held together in front of him. Dave grins and tells him good job, offers his arm and The Mayor hops up onto him. For all that hard work, he rewards the cat with a small handful of treats. The cat takes all of them in his mouth and retreats into the warmth of Dave’s catpack. You take the tilt of Dave’s head towards you to be expecting something like validation.   
  
“It wasn’t totally awful.” You mumble, starting to walk again towards your home. “You take credit cards?” You’re being sarcastic of course, you know he probably doesn’t.   
  
“Nah, free of charge. Don’t worry about it my guy.” He says, falling into step with you.   
  
“Well, I don’t have money but as much as I’d love to leave you out here in the freezing cold with no place to sleep, I just can’t do that.” He gives you a bewildered look. “Yeah, sorry, I don’t make the rules. You’re gonna have to spend the night and endure some shitty chinese food.”   
  
“Yea-ha well, I guess if it’s like marshall law or some shit. Can’t really argue with that.” He says, and you can see the little smile he holds back.   
  
“Damn straight.”   
  
Your apartment is nothing short of cluttered. It’s what the cool kids call ‘aesthetic’ but what you call a fucking shoebox. You’re satisfied with it though. You better be for how high your rent is. Dave seems to give it a healthy once-over when he gets all the way inside, but you can’t tell if he’s judging or just observing.    
  
“Do you uh, have a litter box for him?” You ask, raising an eyebrow as he pulls off his bag and sets it down to let the cat out.   
  
“Do I look like I carry around a five pound cat toilet?” You scowl as he takes off the other, smaller bag that’d been strapped to his side. “But nah, don’t worry he uses the porcelain throne like any other civilized person.” He tells you, because apparently he can’t be serious to save his life.   
  
“Well whatever. If he makes a mess anywhere you’re cleaning it up.” You watch as he pulls off the fluffy wool hoodie and hangs it on the rack. Without all the bulk, you can really get a feel for his stature. Especially once he takes his shoes off. You aren’t even sure where you’d peg him, probably under five foot five. His t-shirt is big but it drapes over him in a way that makes his small stature more evident. “Yeah, make yourself at home.” You mutter.   
  
The cat takes that utterance at face value, finding your bed and hopping onto it immediately. It makes a warm spot right in the middle, which is fine as long as it moves when you’re ready to tuck in. You’re about to open your mouth to tell Dave something but the delivery guy knocks on your door as you’re doing so.    
  
You make haste in grabbing the meal and plating portions for the both of you, and you wind up sitting next to him at your little breakfast bar while the two of you chat idly. Mostly about music, since you seem to be on the same page about that kind of culture. He asks you what kind of books you read, and you’re too ashamed of half your collection to go into detail about the kind of fantasy-erotica you like. Instead you tell him it’s romance. You’re not lying, per se.    
  
When he finishes his meal he sits back and sighs a little, looking at his plate as it it might suddenly appearify some more food. You do the nice thing and nudge one of your eggrolls over to him, which he thanks you for.   
  
“Actually,” He starts, pursing his lips a little. “Thanks for all this. S’really nice of you to be doin this for me.” He stabs a couple holes along the length of the eggroll and pours some soy sauce into each section of it. Enough to make it darker brown on the inside, for the hole to overflow and for the brown liquid to drip down the sides. It’s kinda gross.   
  
“Yeah well, why the fuck not. Who wouldn’t help a friend out.” You remark, attempting to mimic what he’s done to his eggroll but with far less soy sauce.   
  
“Friend?” You can see one of his eyebrows arch over his shades, the other scrunches down out of sight. A look of classic befuddlement.   
  
“S’what I said, dipshit. Eat your eggroll don’t get corny on me.” You wanna shut down feelsy talks, because you figure he’s in a bad situation and you think the both of you would be pretty uncomfortable if either of you flaked out and started crying.   
  
“No man it’s just. I got the impression you didn’t like me.” He says after a long moment of silence and a couple bites of eggroll. Okay, that’s not too bad, you can neutralize.   
  
“I have a lot of friends that I don’t like. Fuckin hate my best friend, you know that. Don’t let it go to your head.” You tell him, shoving him a little with your elbow. He snorts, nods because he’s been around you and Gamzee in a bad mood.    
  
He finishes his eggroll and stands up, brings his plate to the sink and washes it. Afterwards he grabs his bag and heads down the hall.    
  
“I’m gonna change aight, might take a minute.” He tells you.   
  
“Yeah--y’know if you want you can use whatever. The shower, the laundry.”    
  
“Thanks. I got a laundry day that only takes a dollar seventy-five but I’ll take you up on that shower offer.” He gives you a weird little salute before ducking into the bathroom.   
  
While he’s showering, you make up a little pile of blankets on the floor next to your bed, pillow and all for him to sleep on. After cleaning up your meal and making sure everything else is in order, you tuck in to read. However, you don’t get much reading done. The cool draft from the window next to your bed mixed with a full stomach and your warm blankets beckon. You’re asleep before you can get to the next chapter.   
  
Of course, no matter how tired you are, you’ve never been a very good sleeper. At some ungodly witching hour you find yourself grumbling, sitting upright in bed over some restlessness that’s settled into your chest. There’s a light coming from the hallway, and just as you’re thinking there’s no fucking way Dave is STILL in there, he actually shifts in his sleep on the floor to your left.   
  
The fucker left the light on, god damn it.    
  
You get up, grumbling about manners and common sense as you make your way over to the bathroom door, cracked open a foot with bright yellow light pouring through. You open the door to turn the light out and just about jump straight out of your skin.   
  
Dave’s cat is sitting on the toilet, presumably doing its business as it yowls at you. You take the yowling to mean  **_“Get out!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”_ ** , and promptly apologize to it. Heart beating fast, you find your way back to your bed and collapse into it, huffing and staring at your sleeping guest with a mixture of irritation and fascination.   
  
After a moment, though, all that melts away. He’s shivering under the draft, you notice. His hair is still wet from his shower. All you feel is pity.   
  
With a long-suffering sigh, you sit up and lean over, placing a hand on his shoulder to jostle him awake. He’s so quick to wake up that he jumps a little, recoiling from your touch. He lets out an uncharacteristically aggressive “What”, spoken in a hushed gasp as his fingers grip the pillow and he pushes himself up.   
  
“C’mere.” You mutter, pulling back the comforter of your bed. He looks at you tentatively. “C’mon shithead you’re shaking for christ's sake just get in the bed.” Your tone is exasperation incarnate. His expression becomes less alarmed, and he reaches out to clutch the side of the bed. You help pull him up, his presence in your bed is chilly, and he’s still shaking. You swear him to secrecy about this and he nods as you pull him close and let him sap the warmth from you and the bed.   
  
He fits effortlessly under your chin, in the space between there and your legs. He’s small, and soft, his form gives to the shape of yours, you can feel the bones in his back and it makes you a little wary. He doesn’t tangle his legs up in yours or reach out to hold you back, but he does tuck himself close. His shivers die down around the same time that you hear a flush from the restroom and see the light click off. 


	2. Chapter 2

It’s early, but not early enough. Sweat coats your body in a thin layer despite the fact that it’s below thirty and the air you’re breathing in is tearing its cold, angry way into your lungs. It’s kind of bullshit, you’re pretty sure all the exercise you do is supposed to help you feel less out of breath in situations like these.   
  
The situation being that you’re two entire hours late from a workplace that you practically own. Not that you’ll get fired, but you know the morning rush is about to hit and you know you left Nepeta to open all on her own, like an asshole. You’re an asshole, the shittiest kind that probably has trouble staying closed. That’s you. You want to say it’s not your fault because you slept through your alarm, but the reality is that you were woken up by the neighbors fighting five minutes before and spitefully turned your alarm off, foolishly thinking that you not only deserved the extra ten minutes of sleep, but also that you could manage to keep track of it in your twilight state.   
  
As you near the cafe, you kind of want to kick yourself right in the balls. You’d definitely offer to give Nepeta the honor if you had any. There’s a goddamn crowd. Not that that’s never happened before, but it’s never happened on any days you also happened to be running late.

Upon further inspection, though, you can see that the crowd gathered isn’t a line out your doors, no. It’s a circle of people, and once closer you can see they’re surrounding Dave Strider. His cat is working the crowd and everybody is acting like it’s the best thing that’s ever happened since sliced bread. The upside is that some of them are holding to-go cups from your cafe. You wind up shuffling yourself through the people just to get close to him, to see if his strategy to leech off your business is working. Apparently, it is, because there’s a nice collection of petty change in the bottom of his catpack.   
  
“Hey Dave, normally people work corners in the red light district, why don’t you take your sideshow over there?” You ask, an attempt to be playful but you guess scowling as someone drops in some more money doesn’t get the point across, because he shifts, making a disgusted little noise in the back of his throat.   
  
“Fuck off, man.” He nearly spits the words, forcing your eyebrows up to your hairline in surprise. You can see pink highlighting his cheeks and ears, but maybe that’s because his sweater is tied around his hips instead of covering him. Regardless, it leaves you kind of speechless. Dave can be a jackass, sure, but unlike yourself, straight up hostile is not really his style. He takes it upon himself to make like you already did fuck off, focusing on the crowd instead of you.   
  
Once inside, Nepeta shows you no mercy. You’re right in the middle of a morning rush, when you get to the counter she’s thrown your apron on for you and started rattling off orders that she’s backed up on. Despite the bustling air of the cafe, you’re you, and you manage to breath some words of complaint about your resident loiterer. 

“You have a lot of nerve to come in late and bitch about that, Karkitty.” She replies, her cadence an artful mix of sweet and salty.   
  
“I’m not complaining, I’m asking what the fuck he’s doing out there.” Which is kind of a lie because you called him an asshole. You’re working on a flat white but with almond milk instead of normal milk, which you used to not even carry. You remember the first time a customer came in asking if you were vegan friendly, you may have told her to ask the lamb in your stomach from last night’s dinner. Oops.

“For your information, I invited him. I thought his performing might draw in some customers.” Her voice cracks a little on information as she delivers you two replacement gallons of milk, since you’re going through it so goddamn fast. 

“Oh, wow, on a day where there’s just the two of us. What wonderful foresight you have, sister dear.” She straight out scoffs at you.   
  
“It WAS a good idea, we’d be just fine if you were here on time. What’s your problem anyway? I thought you two were cool.” Her observation seems rhetorical, as she immediately goes into taking care of the next customer. 

Ultimately, the two of you are cool aside from that little tiff that happened outside. It honestly sort of blindsided you. And okay, maybe you have a mild complaint about the fact that the night he spent at your place, you woke up to a thank you note and some Starbucks takeout. Starbucks, for fuck’s sake. Sure, the spinach turnover was delicious and their blonde roast is kind of your jam, but that’s beside the point. It was the principle of the matter, that being that it’s kind of a dick move to buy a dude who works at a family cafe fucking Starbucks.

Okay, maybe you’re a snob or more likely searching for reasons to claim that his stay at your house was terrible. It wasn’t, long story short. You slept like a big gay log all night with him in your bed, but that doesn’t mean shit. It especially doesn’t mean that the feeling is mutual, for all you know he hates your guts now and that’s why he bought you breakfast when he had very little money...fuck. Okay, yeah. You’re a dick, the dick is you.

You don’t really have time to think about your double-dickishness right now, though. You have a lot to get done and about an hour and a half in, you realize it won’t let up any time soon, and will actually probably bleed into the lunch rush before you have time to breathe. Great. You have no choice.

You have to call the biggest asshole in the city.

You wanna say that you don’t know how he got hired, that it was a fluke or that he was actually really nice at the interview. The fact is, though, that Caliborn has been a festering, gaping ax wound since he came and picked up an application. He’s always pissy when you call him in, and realistically, you know that the fact that he even has this job is for show, so he can act like he’s not being the clubbed foot society wishes it could amputate. You didn’t really have a choice in giving him the job or not. One of his fathers is a litigator that even Terezi’s mom has lost cases to, the other father is rumored to be a major crime lord. Like fucking hell you’re telling either of them their son is too much a piece of shit to work here.

Which leaves you with no choice but to call him in, because shitty work is better than no work.

Of course he demands overtime, even though he only works part time in the first place. Of course he acts like you just imposed on his busy, busy schedule of being a total waste of space. Of course he pitches the biggest fit, tells you to watch your back. He’s so nasty that you have him working on running ingredients and cleaning tables, making food and such because he isn’t suitable for interacting with customers. The upside is that you’re pretty sure he’ll outright quit next time you call him in when he isn’t scheduled.

“Nah, I give it another two or three times.” Nepeta says as business slows down enough for you to make the remark. You give it another half hour until the cafe is dead for the three o’clock lull, so you’ve sent Caliborn home, safe to talk shit about him.

“We could bet on it.” You offer. She casts you a little scowl.

“Playing on a lady’s weaknesses is rude.” She tells you as a matter-of-fact. “Plus I wouldn’t even know what I’d want you to do.” A little snort escapes you before you can stop it.

“Yeah, or you’re just chicken shit.” 

“Okay, well what would you wager? I think it’s stands to reason that I wouldn’t bet without knowing my risk.” It really only takes you a moment of considering some other options, because honestly you know exactly what you want.

“You gotta introduce Equius to dad. Preferably at some family thing, but as long as I’m there to watch you can do it whenever.” Concern flashes across her face, but it’s fleeting. Not even a second later, you can see the deviant in her. She has an idea. Just as you’re wondering what it is, her eyes dart across the cafe, locking onto Dave on the other side of the window. “Fuck. No.”

“Fuck YES, these are my terms Karkitty, mew gotta bring him to the next family thing. As your date. I think Easter is next?” Her lips are curled into a smug little grin and she even ruffles your hair as she passes you on her way to grab some cream.

“No, that’s mean, because that would imply I WANT to date him, which is not only not true, but it’s also mean to string him along.” You tell her. You definitely DON’T feel your cheeks heat up because you’re not some wooby anime bishie prince, and you definitely don’t like Dave.

“We could make it more interesting and do a parlay.” She suggests, which seems to indicate her complete lack of caring about the point you just brought up.

“Are you not listening to me? Pick something else or I’m not betting.” She continues to ignore you in favor of her idea, or so you think.

“It’s cool, because my second bet is that by Easter, you’ll like-like him. So like, if I’m right about Caliborn, but wrong about you liking him, you don’t have to ask him out at all. It neutralizes the risk of hurting his feelings, but makes my winnings all the more lucrative.” 

Okay, maybe your cheeks are a little warm now. Not for any one reason either. Yes, absolutely at the idea of having a crush on Dave in a matter of months. Yes, Nepeta has a quasi-accurate radar for romance. Yes, because taking anybody to meet your family as your date to Easter like a real functioning adult with a life is basically a fantasy scenario that you never pictured your fluffy, manic ass in, like, ever. Well, maybe once, but your thirteen year old self still held out hope that Fabio could sweep you off your feet and give you Real Heterosexual Love at the time, so it doesn’t count. She’s right, though, because a parlay like that totally neutralizes the risk of hurting Dave’s feelings, and that’s what matters most.

“Okay, sure, but you’re not factoring the very tangible possibilities that you’ll lose and that Dave wouldn’t like me back.” You point out.

“Well the latter is a bridge we can cross when we get to it.” Right, because your feelings don’t actually matter it’s not like you’d be crushed if your crush rejected you or anything. “Okay so, if I lose the first bet and you don’t like Dave by Easter, what do you want?” You groan, and scrub at your face a little bit because when was your love life up for discussion?

“Equius, Easter. And you can’t lie about what he does for a living or why you’re asking for so many paper towels.” You’re honestly just pulling stuff out of your ass at this point.

“Hey that’s way more stuff than what I get if you lose!” Her hands go to rest on her hips, and you mirror the gesture immediately.

“Tough fucking titties, we’re not gambling on YOUR volatile emotions, are we?” This seems to satisfy her, and she turns to exit the bar and bus a few tables. 

The next couple of hours just sort of crawl by, you’re at the mercy of one or two customers an hour until around five-thirty, but even then the rush isn’t bad enough to overwhelm either of you. Once it’s over, another two hours later, the place is dead as a doornail. 

You can feel yourself exhaling relief. You’re not usually one to count down the seconds until you can get off work, you actually sort of enjoy your  job. It helps that you work with your family at a place owned by your family, the cafe is a comfort in it’s own way. Today, though, had you wanting nothing more than to get the fuck home and crash hard on your bed.

The feeling intensifies when Dave rolls in _at closing_ and sets his gross cat bag on the counter with a sigh. 

“Tough day at the office?” You murmur, watching him as he watches the food in the display case.

“Oh yeah, Mr. Mayor and I were very busy. Pencil pushing, filing taxes, expense reports. The Quicken. Shit’s real man, so brutal.” He seems to be in a better mood, or at least forgotten that he was pissed at you.

“I think it’s just Quicken. Like, there’s no “The”, the programs just called Quicken.” You inform him, leaning against the case with your arms crossed under your resting head, watching him. 

“Um excuse you I’m the Mayor’s personal assistant I think I know more about The Quicken than a barista.” He gives you a little grin, with teeth that have the littlest gap in them. Yep. Definitely not mad. You find yourself thinking about the parlay you and Nepeta made earlier. You add his gap and his stupidly full lips to the list of reasons you couldn’t fall for him. Imagine kissing all that, gross, you’re not even going to bother.

“I guess we’re going to ignore the fact that this cafe is practically my business on an ownership level so I would actually know a little more about budgeting software than you and your pet cat.” You can feel your eyebrow twitch up as you make your point.

“Moneymaker. Bacon. Bringer. Respect the man.” He nods towards his backpack. The cat hasn’t come out since Dave came inside. Must be tired. “Anyway my guy I wanna get a couple paninis and a cappuccino that’d be cool. Gotta warm up for the night.” 

“Really?” You stand up straight and punch in his order. “I’d have thought you would’ve made enough to get a room tonight.” Concerned, who’s concerned?

“Eh. New semester started I think, lots of exchange students which is all a bunch of frontloading to say that everything in Manhattan's booked up and I don’t really feel alright goin anywhere else.” He shrugs a little more than necessary to make his point. You open your mouth, maybe about to allude that he stay with you tonight, but he cuts you off. “Anyway chopchop my guy the sooner I get food the sooner I can feed his excellency.”

“Right.” You make a show of rolling your eyes, which he proceeds to mock, but it’s goofy and lighthearted as he hands you the money. Maybe, just maybe, you gave him your employee discount and wind up handing back more than he expected. Luckily, he doesn’t bring it up, only slides his bag to the end of the counter and starts chatting up your stepsister while you get on his order.

“So, Dave, out of curiosity,” You can hear where Nepeta’s going with before she goes there, so you cut in with panini number one.   
  
“Curiosity killed the cat.” You point out. She scrunches up her nose and bumps your hip with hers as you hand Dave one of his sandwiches.   
  
“Satisfaction brought her back. Go finish the man’s order.” She snaps. Cool. No getting out of this one. “Anyway as I was sayin’, what do you do around the holidays?” You try not to take notice but you see his eyebrow arch over his shades--which is pretty far considering how big they are.

“What do you mean?” He asks, taking the saran wrapped panini and slipping it into his pocket.

“I mean like, Christmas or Thanksgiving. Easters coming up.” She elaborates, hands moving with her words for emphasis. He looks away from her with a shrug when you hand him his other panini--which he also stuffs in his pocket. You notice he has to tiptoe to reach over the food case you’ve been handing him things over.

“I dunno. I don’t really do anything for that small stuff yknow. Rose celebrates some witchy holidays I go to sometimes but it’s not a big deal.” He responds. “Why?”   
  
“Oh, no reason. Easters coming up, Karkat and I have a pretty big family and we have a lot of people over and--”   
  
“Alright, your cappuccinos ready.” You interject, walking over to the shorter counter that is more waist high for him so that the risk of spilling all over himself is less prominent. Nepeta takes that as her cue to drop it, thankfully.   
  
“Alright I’m gonna go count the first drawer.” She informs you, eyes fixed on the people outside that look like they might try to come in. Dave takes his beverage and a toothpick, fiddling with the foam top. He hesitates, shuffles on his feet, like there’s something on the tip of his tongue.   
  
“Spit it out, fuckhead.” It’s a prod, accompanied by leaning on your elbows. He hesitates some more.   
  
“I can pay you extra I know it’s extra but,” His fingers fidget around the ceramic cup, like they want to rest but it’s still too hot. “The caramel and the sugar salt stuff...think could get a dash a’ that?” 

“Nep already closed the register for the night.” You inform him. Technically, you can open it if you want but you kind of like watching him scramble to apologize and tell you nevermind, he’s good, it’s no big deal. You let him keep it up until he shuts up on his own, then you pull his cup closer to you and dress it with some caramel and sugar salt. “Just hurry up man, I wanna go home.” You tell him, sliding it back to him.

You think your life feels like a movie sometimes.    
  
He sits down and eats, drinks his coffee, and feeds his cat a can of wet food. Meanwhile, your cafe station plays a gentle, enigmatic tune that you know but can’t place at the moment as you start to stack tables and chairs around him and sweep up the floor. You know it’s from the Great Gatsby soundtrack, though, which is probably why it’s making you feel like this moment means more than it probably does. It’s really just one of those times where you’re more aware of everything around you and in the second you’re living in more than usual. Gentle bouncing drums, a soft voice, an inquirious melody. They make you glance at his hands, the rise and fall of his chest, the way he licks his lips after taking a sip, his cheeks puffing a little when he talks to and pets the mayor--or maybe that’s the bite of food he’s eating.   
  
Y __ our hearts a mess,  
_ You won’t admit to it,  _ __  
_ It makes no sense, _ _  
_ __ But I’m desperate to connect...

You snap out of it once you place the song, fucking finally, and get back to packing away things that need to be refrigerated overnight. You rationalize that you weren’t thinking of him this way before, you’ve never thought about him like this before, you’re just doing so at Nepetas suggestion. Maybe there was a time he held your hand while leading you and your friends to the green room backstage at a concert. Maybe there was a time where you put your hand on his back to steady him when he lost his balance while dancing. Or a time when he danced with you, arms around your neck while the both of you were a little bit under the influence.

It’s hardly anything to think about. It’s not like that, and he’s not the only person you’ve danced with in the heat of the moment. That shit just happens when you’re a concert-goer. He knows that. Nepeta doesn’t know what she’s talking about.

He finishes his drink around when you get done packing up the display food into the fridge. You catch his goodbye wave just as you’re coming out, and offer up an unimpassioned “Later” in response before you take the cup into the back to wash it.

All your other closing time duties are permeated with thoughts about Dave. You kind of hate it, you wonder if you forgot to take your medication and that’s why you’re overthinking everything. Does he think about you like this? Why was he so mad this morning? Was it your fault? Is he still upset with you and just pretending to be okay? How did he get over it by the end of the day? It’s like an itch you can’t scratch, but it’s in your chest instead of on your skin so it sits there wiggling and throbbing and keeping you on the edge of your seat, probably until you go to sleep.

You slip into a weird, sad little bout of maladaptive daydreaming where you fantasize about taking him to meet your dad at Easter. In your daydream, his characterization isn’t exactly right. It’s pretty boring with a couple of really good zingers, when in reality you know he’s consistently decent at having a rapport. You don’t really notice you’re doing it until Nepeta tells you goodbye.   
  
“What?” You ask, glancing around.

“Yeah, we’re all done, dingus. I’ll seeya Monday.” She throws you the keys, because you’re obviously going to be the last one out since you’re still in your uniform and not wearing a coat. Though you’re quick to change that, turning off the cafe lights as you go. Right before heading out the door, your phone vibrates from your apron, which you’d hung up. You’re the space cadet, it is you. When you grab it you realize you’ve got two texts from Nepeta.

**:33 < 1st ave is closed off at st marks** **  
** **:33 < take ave a and be!!!! careful!!!!**

Great, fun, awesome. It’s not that avenue a is a particularly dangerous way to go home, it’s just that it goes along Tompkins Square Park, which isn’t all that bad but it has a reputation for attracting addicts and homeless, especially at night. Nepeta seems more concerned than you are, but the probability of being approached by a suspicious person does increase.

Hitting the pavement, it’s not particularly wet but it’s cold as hell. There’s some wind, and it feels like the buildings are radiating cool air like a fridge. You put some pep in your step, some hustle in your bustle, and wind up with that some cold sweat feeling you had on your way to work this morning.

You make it past Tompkins with no hangups, but you’re too nervous to really zone out like you normally do when walking home. As you wait for the crosswalk, you survey your surroundings. Just to make sure you’re in the clear, but your survey doesn’t exactly turn up empty.

Not that anybody is bugging you directly, but across the street in a direction that you don’t need to go you see an unmistakable figure tucked away in an ally. He’s not wearing his jacket, actually, he’s got it wrapped around his cat’s backpack, which is tucked between his propped up legs. You’re sure he must be fucking freezing, but he’s got his head tucked under the hood at least. 

For a moment you think about making him come home with you. The walk light flicks on, though, you figure he’d have too much pride to accept an offer, and you low key want to prove to yourself that you’re not into him. You tell yourself this all the way home, all during your shower, all while you try to sleep. In the end, you can’t even read a book because there’s only one thing on your mind.   
  
The absolute bouquet of shitty reasons you had to leave a homeless friend in the cold near a potentially dangerous part of the neighborhood. You try to tell yourself he can’t hold it against you because he didn’t notice, or that you’re sure he’s done stuff like that before, but that doesn’t mean your consciousness won’t hold it against you.

You’re are the biggest asshole, it is you.   
  
_ And you can’t live like this. _


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pov switch yall. as im writing i'm really realizing that part one is like a nonstop angst-fest so i mean! be prepared for no emotional satisfaction for a while.

You wake up to a throbbing numbness. It radiates from your neck, creeps both up and down your spine, your ass feels it too, you feel it everywhere your body connects to the chilled concrete and brick of the alleyway you called home last night. The mayor shifts as you do, hopping out of his warm little cave you've made with your u-pet and body and stretching. You follow suit but slower, because there’s an ache that’s buried in the center of your marrow, that you can’t shake from stretching quick and comfortable.

You take a long moment to get oriented again, mostly you just stare at your cat. Watching him as he lives and breathes is more grounding than anything else you can do. You remember the street you’re on, the day, the month, the year. What you did yesterday, what you’re going to do today.   
  
You groan and press your teeth together. Whenever you wake up, they feel soft and you have to grind them for a moment to remind yourself that they’re as strong as they’ve always been. Your hand runs through your hair as you drop your head between your knees, snags a couple of times on knotted curls. It’s greasy, not that anybody would notice or that it’d matter if they did. You take a deep, cool breath, then exhale. It’s dawn and today’s your day off, there’s no need to rush.   
  
You stretch again, crack your neck, and pull the u-pet away from your lap to reveal a smaller drawstring polyester bag that you keep all the other junk in. The money, about a hundred from yesterday. Cat food, so much cat food. You pull out a pink can and open it for your friskies loving friend, watch him eat while you debate if you should crack open your leftover sandwich from yesterday. Ultimately, you decide not to. You want to make sure that you have money for the hostel and your hunger only really gets bad at night anyway.    
  
Now that he’s gonna be moving around and the sun is coming up, you don’t exactly need to keep his home all wrapped up in your sweater probably. You pull it onto your body and hop up to your feet despite your muscles screaming at you to stop. Doing that.

Your first mission of the day is to go take a shower. Your walk to the 6 line station is a brisk one, short and somewhat energizing because of how chilly it is. The moment you hit the stairs of the station, though, you feel yourself slow down. Welcoming heat wraps around you, it’s not ideal by any means but it’s warmer than the surface. As you’re waiting for the northbound, you almost feel like you’re gonna pass out. When you find a clock, you understand why.

6:38am

It also explains why the station is practically bustling. Morning rush, voices echo around the walls, smells all mixed together to form one odd smell, at least, it’d be odd if you’d never smelled it before. Somebody in a particular rush slams into you on their way to catch the southbound as it screeches to a stop. He barely utters an apology, and definitely doesn’t help you up off your knees. You take a deep breath and try not to feel melodrama. This is cool, you’re good, life of a nomad, experiences of the homeless, it’s all good. You’re all good.   


The train is even warmer still. You feel so spaced out as you nestle yourself in a corner seat, like you’re an outside observer of the universe and not really present. A man in a business suit eyes a woman who’s obviously just going home from a party. You’re not the only person with a pet; a pock-faced middle aged person of indistinguishable gender strokes their hand over an expensive looking dog. A pair of women speak in hushed hindi while their small children drift in and out of sleep next to them.

And soon, you’ve started to do the same. Drifting. The mayor occasionally meows when you’ve hit a loss of consciousness, and every time you reassure him that you won’t miss your stop. You’re wrong, of course. Fifteen minutes into your ride you’re dead to the world asleep. 

It’s the word  _ Harlem  _ that permeates, and jerks you out of your slumber. As in, the stop you meant to take last today before going to the hostel. Fuck. Had you slept any longer you wouldn’t even be on the island anymore. The Mayor glares at you from the seat across from you as if he knew this--scratch that, he probably does know this. Not like it’s a huge waste of time, it’s just not what you wanted to do.  
  
You have to get off, though. You’re still so tired but you can’t get your z’s in on the train, and you’re not interested in finding out what’s on the end of the metro today. You pull yourself up in time to get off before the rush of people getting on; The Mayor tags along behind you, at your heels as you walk.

It’s not a really long walk, you play songs you know all the words to in your head until you get to this dingy little storage company.   


“Mornin’ broski.” You mumble, sighing and propping your backpack up on the counter.

“Ever the early riser, aren’t you, Mr. Strider?” The man on the other side of the booth gives you a wry, forced grin; his breathing is heavy and he’s started to sweat. You know he hates it when you’re here so early. You’re not sure if he has some mad social anxiety or if you’re interrupting something.

“Sorry Horuss. S’just the way the day turned out.” You try to be apologetic, but it’s hard to have sympathy for him when he’s so creepy. “Anyway, can I get my key? I need to do some laundry.”   


“I’m sorry to say, but no. I can not give you the key to your locker.” He doesn’t seem sorry. He also doesn’t explain why, only waits for you to ask. You sigh, because the tediousness of interacting with this man isn’t something you planned on being able to tolerate today.

“Why can you not give me my key?” You entertain.

“You haven’t paid your rent.” He replies. Your chest clenches up and at the same time, you feel anger welling in it.

“What! No, that’s bullshit. I paid on the seventh of last month, today is the third! I have five days!” You start to bounce your foot, rocking your weight back and forth slightly.

“Four, if rent were due by dates, but they aren’t. It goes by weeks, four to be precise, and we aren’t open tomorrow.” You watch as a drop of sweat slides out from under his goggles and drips off of his chin. Accordingly, your hands move back and away from his drip range.   
  
“Dude...c’mon.” You groan, running a hand through your hair.   
  
“If you don’t pay today, your things will be removed on Monday. It’s company policy.” He seems to struggle with saying this. If you didn’t know him better you’d think it was a sign of him breaking, but no, he’s just a weirdo. With much reluctance, you go digging in your bag. Nearly all of your money goes across the counter into his gloved yet somehow still moist fingers. You’re left with fifteen dollars and some change for laundry.   
  
Him handing you your key is hardly satisfying. As you walk down the empty, concrete and metal hallway, you feel a melancholy plucking at your chest. There is a strange sense of hyper awareness and surrealism in contemplating how far away rock bottom is while walking through a Harlem storage locker at seven thirty in the morning. Cool, almost greenish light bouncing around the hall from the fluorescent lights. A place and a time where nobody is watching, or thinking, or feeling, and maybe for just a moment you can let out our melodrama. And you do. Once you get to your locker, your hand rests on the lock for a moment before you sigh, and lean into it. Your head rests against your hand, and you splay your fingers against the cool metal surface. You let yourself have a moment.    
  
Not too long of a moment, though. This morning you’re bent far enough that you feel like you might snap, so you only stay in this position long enough to calm down. You remember the most important person stays right by your side every day. You remember that you have your favorite sandwich from your favorite cafe to eat later. You remember that this locker is jam-packed with cat food and that The Mayor will never go without. You remember that your beanie and a warm jacket are both about to be laundered and they’ll feel fresh when you put them on. Then you remember how to curl your fingers around the key in your hand and unlock your locker.   
  
Your system is bum as hell. You know it. Every four or five days, you take a shower and change into your last clean outfit, then you come here and switch bags. You take out what you need--your sandwich, the rest of your money, the cat food, and this time, your extra skivvy roll you were supposed to change into earlier, and you transfer it into the messenger bag that contains your dirty clothes from last week. Then you go do your laundry. You’ve been considering doing a different routine but this one always works out best for you. You don’t have much else in your locker anyway, aside from a few sentimentals and a camera that is way too valuable to take out in public.   
  
You don’t spare a goodbye to Horuss, not even as he spits a wheezy goodbye when you plop your keys up on the counter. He isn’t a bad guy but you are now demoted to street sleeper another night because of his lack of mercy this morning.    
  
Lucky enough, nobody else gives you a difficult time. The only people to be seen in the laundromat are a man and his sleeping daughter. The only interaction you have with him is the awkward White Man Smile of Sympathy™ he gives when you nearly jump out of your skin from the sound of the dryer buzzing. After rolling your warm laundry into tight skivvy rolls, you’re on your way to the showers. 

You’re not bothered there either. It’s a field and track that people are allowed to use for free, and in the bathrooms are showers. Being that it’s currently later than you usually take a shower, there is a decent amount of time that you have to wait before you have total privacy. You’re not all about dirty looks that some pretentious health nut might give you for not exercising before your shower--well, for being a bum in general. You’ve already talked to the groundskeeper he has no problem with you showering here so you don’t care what other people think. 

It’s almost nine thirty. People are probably at work. There’s nobody on the field and nobody in the bathrooms. The brick building radiates a warmth that pulls you in. The mayor waits in his bag somewhere in eyeshot but not too close to the thick steam and muggy air. 

You think that being naked is probably the biggest downside to not having your own place. You’re never in a position where you can wear loose, non constrictive clothes or even be naked, save for when you shower. Even in the summer, there’s bags on your body, sweat clinging to your t shirt, tightness everywhere. You’re never relaxed or unencumbered by the things you carry, and that’s probably the worst part of your whole situation.

Right now, though, that’s not a problem. This is you time. You sit in the stream for a while, letting the feeling of warm water roll down your back. You let it hit your cheeks and forehead, and flatten out your hair. You crack every joint you can crack and then lean up against the somewhat cool wall just to rest for a minute before you pull out your sample products. Little shampoos and conditioners occupy the bottom of your bag. Last Halloween, Rose gave you two bars of black soap that you use as body wash because it keeps you clean and it keeps your skin clear. You’re kind of a sucker for self care. If you could, you’d do it all the time. You love the smells of clean products, you love the way you feel after. Bright, and good, and smell-nice. When your hair is clean it dries into almost ringlets.    
  
Your bliss is uninterrupted for the most part, but you do hear a group of people outside get onto the track. That means it’s time to pack it all in and move on, and you’re honestly okay with that. You dry off with a hand towel, and suffer the discomfort of pulling on clothes when you’re still sort of damp. At least they’re still kinda warm from the dryer.

You decide to walk back to the East Village area instead of taking the 6 line back down, mostly because you should save money, but also so that you can waste time. As you walk, you pick up all the trash you can manage and throw it away. You stop and admire murals, and think about where you would stand if you had your camera to take pictures. You have a conversation with a man at a bus stop until his bus comes and takes him away. At one point, you actually chill on a stoop for about a half an hour and watch The Mayor play with a stray that lives back in an alleyway. You only end up leaving because the other cat runs away for no reason, because some cats are just like that. Weirdos.   
  
You Final Destination is Tompkins. It’s a pretty social place, actually. It’s almost bustling for how many people are there. You’re probably in for all of ten seconds before someone approaches you asking if you’re working today.

“Nah, it’s supposed to be my day off.” You tell her. She’s in her twenties but looks like she’s forty. Her hair is a sandy blonde color, and styled pretty nicely if it weren’t for her split ends.    
  
“Oh, that’s too bad. Maybe I can pet him, though?” She asks. 

“If he’s cool with it yeah,” You nod down at him, currently sitting on the ground next to you and swishing his tail back and forth. You get the feeling at first that he doesn’t like her, but when she bends down to pet him, he doesn’t move away and even half-heartedly leans his head into her. Though, while he does it he looks off into the distance like something else has his attention.

Apparently, it does. You know him to pretend to be distracted, but he’s actually got his eyes locked on somebody who’s over by the bathroom. He bolts after a moment, but before you run after him you apologize to the woman and explain that it’s not her, he’s just distracted.

He’s a difficult cat to catch up to. He’s got speed, and he weaves through the people in the park like they’re nothing to him. When you finally do reach him, he’s pile-driving himself into a confused but overjoyed Gamzee Makara, whose low and raspy laughter draws eyes from a ten foot radius.

“Well fuck, s’been a minute.” He remarks through chuckles, his long arms curling around The Mayor and holding him to his chest. “What’s up, brother? Haven’t seen you round this place in a while.” He asks you. You want to be kind of jealous about how much your cat loves him, but you’re just not. It’s cute, honestly. Gamzee--tall dark and mildly terrifying, coddling your cat.

“I was busy all last week. Hittin' up some other good spots with the Mayor, rollin' in fat stacks, you know how it is.” You shove your hands into your pockets and look up at him. Really far up. Gamzee’s a fucking giant, basically. “What about you, though, what’re you even doin’ in this pit?” You ask.

“Dunno man, my fuckin’ best friends off work today and all up n’ said he wants to chill here for a while. Been here since noon.” He sets your cat down on the ground, much to his dissatisfaction.

“Noon? What time is it, even.” He shrugs as his arms go up and comb through black tangles, trying to organize them into a section small enough to tie up. His unruly hair reminds you that you’re long overdue for a haircut.

“Two thirteen.” Karkat mutters as he comes out of the bathroom, rubbing a paper towel over his hands. “And where the fuck have you been?” 

“I’m sorry? Did I not get some kinda memo about meeting tweedle dick and tweedle drugs over here or something?” You grin at him like you’ve just made the most clever joke in the world. He rolls his eyes.

“I just assumed since you’re not a stranger to slumming around here that you’d be here.” He sniffs after and tilts his head a little, like he’s sticking up his nose.

“Aw, s’at why you’re here today? Couldn’t get enough of little ol’ me yesterday so you came here just to find me?” You purse your lips in a smile that you kind of hope is cute? But you can’t see yourself so it doesn’t really matter. He just rolls his eyes.

“All that matters is that you’re here now, little dude. You up for joinin’ us?” Gamzee interjects. 

“Joining you in what? Just chillin’ or something?”

“We’re gonna walk over to the other park down on Houston.” Karkat throws the paper towel he was holding in the garbage and promptly buries his hands in his hoodie pockets. 

“Why? Somethin wrong with Tompkins?” You pull a little face.

“Nah man its just theres food trucks at the other place. I’m hungry as a motherfucker.” By now, your cat has worked his way back into Gamzee’s arms, this time the guy seems to have no intention of setting him down.

“Yeah it’s some kind of theater thing like Shakespeare in the park I guess. There’s no cover fee, we just wanna grub. You want?” Karkat makes it pretty clear they want you to join.

“Uh,” You shrug. “I’m real sort on cash, guys. Had a bill to pay and then some laundry so I gotta hang on to what I have.” You explain. They both just give you a look. 

“So?” Gamzee asks, scratching at The Mayor’s chin.

“Yeah man, who gives a fuck like not to rub it in your face or anything but sparing some cash for you isn’t gonna run us out of house and home.” Karkat explains.

“Really its cool, guys. I’ve got one of the best sandwiches in town in my bag I’m savin’ for dinner.” It’s Karkat’s turn to pull a face.

“You’re not referring to…” The look on your face says yes before he can finish his sentence. E makes a dramatic gagging sound as his thick brows furrow so deep that you think they might be magnetically attracting each other. “Dave, that’s gross. I made that sandwich at nine in the morning and then reheated it at almost eight at night. You’ll literally make yourself fuckin’ sick there’s probably blowflies in it already.” You shrug a little, now gnawing at your lip. You really don’t like taking charity. It’s kind of inevitable but it’s still not comfortable for you.

“I guess, yeah. I could eat.” Your stomach agrees with you. Gamzee claps a hand on your shoulder and pushes you between the two of them while the three of you turn the direction you need to be going in and walk.

You smell the food trucks before you can see them. The best way to describe the smell is just. Beef. The smell of sizzling, salted beef and other meat products carries halfway down the block. Your stomach strikes up an angry storm of growls, cursing the day you were born for letting it go this long without food. You mumble at it to chill the fuck out. Karkat doesn’t understand what you’re talking about, and you have to explain to him that you’re telling your stomach because it’s making all kinds of a racket. You think you see the tiniest smile on his face.

You wind up getting food from this weird ass Greek-American hybrid. Gyro burgers, covered in tzatziki, and fries with a bunch of unidentifiable shit all over them but it really doesn’t matter that you don’t know what it is because the smell coming from them tells you they’re gonna be like the second coming of Jesus Christ in your gut. You actually manage to lose track of not-so-precious time once again just talking to them and idly watching theater geeks partake in a bunch of playwright inside jokes that you don’t understand. It’s only when it’s dark and the theater people start packing up that you realize the three of you have been sitting around for a really goddamn long time.

“Well my bros I’d love to sit n’ chill with alls yall for some more time but I got a curfew now.” Gamzee laments as he finally lets The Mayor go, much to his distaste.

“Right, yeah, because you’re a middle schooler, I forgot.” You don’t have to look at Karkat to know he rolled his eyes. “Anyway, yeah, I should get home too. Sleep is for the weak and all. You want us to walk you to your hostel, Dave?” 

You don’t answer at first, just because you don’t know how to. You’re in the middle of ushering your cat into his u-pet, and you feel like you’re suddenly being given a pop quiz or something. You just open your mouth and close it again, and stay quiet. You don’t know why.   
  
“Dave?” He repeats.   
  
“Huh?” You zip up the bag after The Mayor is inside, straighten out and look at him like you’re now giving him your full attention.   
  
“Do you want us to walk you over to your hostel?” It feels like he’s relentless, you feel like you’re being accused of something even though you know you’re not.

“Uhh, no, no it’s cool.” You finally manage to articulate.   
  
“C’mon now motherfucker, it’s almost ten. Lil dude like you ain't be roamin’ around these streets this late.” Gamzee interjects.

“It’s cool, guys, it’s cool. I’m good, thanks though, night.” You end the conversation there, you don’t need to be reminded that you’re small and defenseless and homeless and slumming around a city that definitely isn’t known to be particularly safe. You don’t need that. You keep walking, skirt away from the situation. Then there’s a hand on you.  
  
Heavy and warm and it falls on your shoulder without your permission or ample notice. You jump a little and maybe stumble through the side step you’d taken to get away from it.    
  
“...Dave?” Karkat’s eyes are giving you pity. Pity wrapped in a tall, dark, and handsome package. There’s a lump in your throat. You can’t do this here, you won’t let yourself get in your head. You shove your hands into your jacket pockets.   
  
“What.”  
  
“You’re...not going to a hostel tonight, are you?” God you wish he’s stop sounding so sympathetic. You liked Karkat better when he was calling you a piece of shit for jacking one of his onion rings.

“Nah.” He clasps his hands and hesitates.   
  
“So, where are you gonna go?” He’s looking to do something. Whether it’s offer you more, or feel guilty for not, you can’t tell. 

“There’s a tree I pissed on once at Tompkins it’s basically mine now because of that.” You deliver it with only the driest of tones. It makes him laugh a little. 

“What if somebody else pissed on it?” He asks.

“Then I’ll piss on it again before I go to sleep.” You say. He’s managed to bring a small smile to your face now. He snorts, nudges you with an elbow.

“Ew, ya fuckin’ nasty.” He does a spot-on Raven-Symone, weirdly enough, and it makes you laugh more. And that’s what the two of you do for a few seconds, until your giggles die down and the air around you is loud with white noise. “...Just be safe, okay?”   


“Always am.” You always are. You always are. You mirror the words a thousand times in your head. You always are. 

But you’re really not.

 


	4. Chapter 4

“Don’t touch me.”

Your mouth definitely makes the shape to say the words. You definitely try to put some breath behind it, some force. And yet, you can’t hear your voice as you say it. There are no real, tangible words to fill the airspace, and so if you can’t hear it obviously Karkat can’t either. 

So he keeps touching you. He’s sitting near you in the grass, odd music that shifts every time you almost nail down the song plays in the background. Every time you focus on the music to try and figure it out, he’s gotten a little closer. Soundbites from conversations you’ve already had play between your lips and his. His hand is on your foot. That’s when you tell him to stop, or at least try to, but he doesn’t. His other hand falls on your knee and you start to panic, because no matter how hard you try to say it the words don’t come out. His hands are rough and hard and they’re prying one of your legs slowly down into a different position. Weirdly slowly. Methodically.

“Stop!” And like that, you have your voice, and you’re no longer with Karkat in a mild park having a conversation you’ve already had. You’re on a dewy, grassy knoll with a stranger holding your leg. You’re real, he’s real, neither of you are some funky dream projection of your insecurities or anxieties or whatever Rose would tell you if you threw her a bone and let her pick at the dream you just had.

He looks at you, right in the eyes. His are almost sea green, and have a healthy dark ring around the irises. They’d be nice if they weren’t surrounded by thinning eyelashes and sagging skin. They’d be even nicer if they didn’t belong to the weirdo trying to pry your backpack from it’s strategically secure position between your legs.

“I said stop; go away, get off me, man.” Your tone is a lot more aggressive and a lot less panicked as you shake him off of your leg. The Mayor punctuates your point by hissing. You couldn’t be prouder of your best friend in the world, but you’re still pissed. Or freaked out. You don’t know, the guy isn’t leaving quick enough, he won’t go away, so you stand up and walk away yourself, brushing off cold droplets and pieces of grass from your butt and thighs and hustling post haste towards the bathroom to wash off the nasty.

You wash your hands in the sink. One minute goes by and you can’t take your eyes off the dirty metal surrounding the mirror in front of you. Another minute goes by, you know you haven’t blinked. Your hands aren’t clean enough though. You can only think about how the guy’s touch bled through your jeans, crawled up your skin. Your whole leg tingles but the only thing you can wash is your hands, so you do. You don’t know how long you’re doing it, you just know that if you stop you’re going to break down. 

Then you actually do. Your body has decided it’s too tired, too worn for your mind to will it back into it’s place. Your eyes sting and you grip the sink, head dropping to stare at your hands, now red with beads of orange tinted, watered down blood sticking to the surface near your knuckles. You’re leaking, dripping, overwhelmed. Crying in a bathroom at the ass crack of dawn in a city where you’re at best surviving and at worst just fucking existing. Taking up space you never asked for and almost don’t even want to take up. 

“Fuck.” You sniff, and it sounds wet. You’re not in total meltdown mode, but the only reason is because you’re in public, and the last thing you need is that guy who just tried to jack your cat coming in and thinkin’ you’re as weak as you probably look right now. You can’t do this right now, you just can’t handle it. The Mayor concurs it appears. As soon as you suggest it; “Wanna visit dad?” He’s rubbing against your legs with enthusiasm and vigor. 

It’s a walk, but you wind up at the bus station. The ticket to Albany leaves you with an entire dollar to your name. It’s worth it though. Once you’re on the bus you’re lucky enough to find a seat in the very back with nobody to have to share with. Just the warmth of the bus, the plush seats, the quiet as most people taking a bus this early aren’t really talkers. 

The trip is about two and a half hours long, including the stop you take in the middle so that the driver can smoke and the passengers can stretch their legs and grab some food if needed. You don’t need it. Well, you can’t afford to need it at the moment. You’ll just have to wait. You can afford to wait, business is normally really good in Albany since rich people love weird funny animal theatrics. Anticipating the workday ahead of you and honestly being a little tempted by the comfortable atmosphere, you spend most of your trip sleeping. It’s not only good to get in some sleep, it’s also good that downtown is kind of a walk; it gives you some time to wake up and be bright-eyed before you get there.

As luck would have it, you reach the downtown area as they’re starting some sort of pride festival. The day is already starting to look up, honestly, these events always make you feel a little safer than usual. Not to mention, rich white gay people are over the top in all the ways they can be. You barely have to unzip your backpack before people are all over you askin’ about your cat. A little disoriented from the ride, it takes a longer to get into the performance persona you typically front when you’re working, but you get the hang of it after a while. 

As much as you internally complain about working all the time, you really enjoy performing with The Mayor. Normally, he sets the tone; there are three or four different kinds of performances the two of you do together. Most often, it’s instructional storytelling. Like when people talk to their parrots and they say things to complete the picture, you talk to the Mayor and he does stuff to complete your suggestion. Second-most often it’s just doing a lot of physical tricks for treats, things cats don’t look like they should be doing. Sometimes you’ll spit some poetry and he’ll follow your lines with tricks and gestures to match. You know that’s hard for him, though, so you try to avoid doing that one. You’re also working on some dance routines to do with him, but it’s real rare to   have a source of music to practice to, so you save those stunts for concerts and such.

Today, people hardly have time to stop and listen to the words coming out of your mouth, so most of the work is just tricks and treats, but sometimes a float will pass on a slow roll that blares music so loud you can actually get some practice in. The Mayor does his tricks and flips off the beat you set, and it yields a really positive reaction from people gathered around the two of you. It feels kinda weird and wrong to crash the party without actually expressing your own pride so at some point the two of you move on, and with some of the money you’ve made you browse the vendor tents and pick out some choice pridewear. 

The Mayor gets top priority of course. You can’t label his sexuality because he’s a neutered cat so you just show off some support by buying him a little rainbow bandana and tying it around his shoulders. He sports it like a badge of honor and interacts with festival goers while you sit at a booth and get your nails painted the colors of the bisexual flag. The tent to the left sells wrist bands so you think, why the fuck not? Grab a couple of those too. 

You think it’s kind of weird to see a pride event in the middle of winter, but everybody seems to be having a good time anyway. It certainly doesn’t hurt your business any. Some people even recognize you, and knowing your situation wind up tipping you extra. By dinner time you’ve made enough money to last you the rest of the month if you play your cards right. Of course you’re not gonna look a gift horse in the mouth so you don’t stop working at that point. You really only think to stop when someone shouts your name over the crowd.

You feel your heart skip around in your chest a little, and you’re grinning ear to ear before he calls it again, looking around the crowd to try and find where he is. 

He completely blindsides you. You let out a startled shout when his arms go around you, lifting you straight off your feet. Not that you care. John and his dad are probably the only people in the world who don’t wig you out when they touch you, partially because you trust them and partially because you’ve resigned yourself to accepting that they’re just a touchy family. You just laugh while John squeezes the everloving life out of you. You can’t say you expected a different reaction.

“Dave what the hell!” He sets you down and his hand goes up. You see something register on his face, then he places his hand on your face and shoves it a little. “It’s been way too long since you’ve been home. What the fuck, dude?”

“Um?” You make a big stinking show of looking him up and down. “I think I should be the one asking what the fuck. Like maybe what the fuck did college do to you? You’re fuckin’ HUGE dude.” He wasn’t exactly a string bean before, and generally speaking most people dwarf you, but he really beefed up since the last time you saw him.

“Oh, uh, I dunno. Took an internship with a contractor who does construction work on homes and the like. Y’know, building decks, installing windows, grout. Hammers.” He looks a little bashful when he talks about it.

“Well, whatever. It’s a good look for you.” You reassure him.

“Thanks.” He bends down and picks up your cat, petting a few times before just pulling him into his arms. The Mayor is beyond happy. John was the one that found him, after all.

“So what are you doin’ here anyway. Doesn’t really seem your speed.” You point out.

“Oh, yeah.” He shrugs. “I mean I guess I started dating this chick and I really like their dumb face, but they’re part of the community and I figured okay, most of my friends are gay, and my girlfriend is some kind of trans, so it’s probably about time I actually shape up and learn a thing or five about this stuff.” He explains.

“Right, because living with me never really clued you into what is or isn’t okay to be like when talking about queer people.” He knows you’re teasing, he scrunches up his nose and shakes his head.

“Anyway I kinda did some self discovery garbage, like, I guess I’m not really attracted to anybody. Which sounds weird! Because I have a girlfriend and I’ve had girlfriends and crushes but,” Your eyes give him a once over and sure enough he’s wearing a belt that’s ace-colored. “It makes sense to me yknow. I’ve never been a particularly, uh, I mean. I dunno, like I can say someone’s hot, and objectively jacking off is great--” He’s starting to get really red now, and stuttering through some of his words.   
  
“Too much info, my guy. I get it, you’re not sexually aroused by people. Maybe a better conversation for when we’re not in public probably.” You point out. He nods, silently thanking you for stopping him before he could further embarrass himself.

“Anyway so, you’re definitely coming home, right? I mean dad didn’t say anything about it I had no idea you were coming but you know you better be staying with us.” He helps you when you pick up your bag, depositing your furry friend in the back and zipping it up for you while you ease it onto your shoulders.

“Uh, duh. Why the fuck else would I be here?” You quip back, bending down and gathering up the money that’s been thrown into your beanie and shoving it into your messenger bag.

“Well sorry, I was under the impression you were here to leech money out of these good homosexual people.” He teases. He gets a vaguely soft punch to the shoulder in response. “Anyway yeah, I was actually about to head home to catch some dinner, then go out with some friends. You want to come?”

“To dinner? Abso-fuckin-lutely. Out with friends is gonna have to wait though. Like, I step foot in that house and I’m not leavin’ until I’m damn well ready, which probably includes sleeping in my own bed, and taking a shower in dad’s bathroom.” You respond.   
  
“Oooh,” He groans, squinting into the distance. “Yeah, yeah. I’ve been off in school, I forgot how good dad’s shower is. I’ve been using the other bathroom like a sucker.” He starts to walk towards a lot nearby.

“What, you’re on break? Everybody else is just gettin’ back I thought.” You follow after him, having to sort of weave to stay next to him. He’s practically a brick wall, so people part out of his way. You, not so much.

“Yeah, most people are but I overdid my coursework while I was on break so it’s like, why would I go back if I don’t have to. Plus a buddy of mine’s sending me snapchats of what’s goin’ on and if I really don’t get it I’ll just drive over, it’s like twenty minutes.” He explains, pulling keys out of his pocket. It takes you off guard for a second, because you don’t remember him having a car and none of your friends on the island drive. 

“Whoa whoa, dad lets you drive now? What’s next, you enjoy cake?” Is your oh-so-clever response.

“Maybe I’ve grown a taste for chocolate lava cake, Dave, you never know. Things change when you haven’t shown your face upstate in a year and a half.” He unlocks his car once you reach it--a dusty sort of old thing. Probably early noughties, looks like an average joe car if you’ve ever seen one. He slides into it with an ease that shows you he’s had it for a little while. Has it really been that long since you were up here?   
  
You open the door, or at least try to. It’s still locked. He goes to unlock it, and you pull the door handle again, which means you can’t open it because it’s trying to unlock. Both of you sigh, and you tilt your head up and open your arms, waiting for him to unlock it before you can finally open it. Despite the frustration of it, you can’t help but kind of grin. It’s one of those things that reminds you that you’re human, and not actually dragging your walking existence around on a daily basis.

“So, were you actually expecting to see me here or what?” He asks when you slip into the seat and buckle up.   
  
“John, I honestly wish I could claim credit for such intuitions. I didn’t even know there was a pride thing today.” He makes this face like he doesn’t believe you. “No, really. Who the fuck has a pride festival in January? In New York? It’s fuckin’ freezing, y’all are nuts.”

“I’m not gonna humor actually answering that because it remains to be seen, instead I’m gonna gloss right on over to my point. That being, why didn’t you call? Did you actually expect to walk all the way into our neighborhood?” The engine starts up with a couple of turns. It’s kind of satisfying to know dad didn’t spoil him about this thing.

“I don’t think you understand the concept of being without a home, man. Walking, all day, every day. That’s like most of my day, is just walking. I didn’t even fuckin’ consider callin’, actually, it wasn’t even within my radar of consideration. I reiterate, of calling you, I was not considerate.” Thrice, because John can’t pull his thick skull out of his thicker ass sometimes.

“Okay, I get it, and by the way considerate doesn’t have the same meaning on a colloquial level as consider or consideration, at least not in the context you’re using it in. Which means your rhyme wasn’t a natural rhyme.” He’s just trying to antagonize you at this point. You roll with it.   
  
“Wow yes I came all the way to Albany for Johnnyboy to school me about poetry just because he’s taking some college. Newsflash babe poetry is art and art ain’t got rules, that’s the point. Now put the pedal to the metal I wanna see--fUCK--” He actually jerks the car backwards out of the parking space, abruptly and suddenly. You might have a bloody nose if you didn’t already have a seat belt on. You can’t help but laugh so hard you snort.

The rest of your ride is just like that. Him picking on you, and you pretending to be angry about it while sporting an unfading grin. And when you get inside, you see an almost identical set of blue eyes widen doeishly--probably the same look John had before shouting your name. Dad’s got his arms around you before you can even take your shoes off. Just like his biological son, he’s lifted you straight off your feet, but you expected him to do that, and he does it more gently because he actually knows his own strength.

“Dave, it’s so good to see you.” His words hit you in the chest as hard as his cooking hits your nose. The unmistakable smell of alfredo pasta wafts through and mingles with the natural scent of the Egbert abode. It pulls you back hard into your early teens. You know it’s them specifically, that smell like warm bodies, fresh linens, and in some places, old shaving cream. There’s also a permanent sweetness to it that you can literally always smell, despite the air being filled with garlicky buttery goodness at the moment. You know this is their smell. Home smell. You know it because it came with you when the three of you moved from Seattle to Albany when you were fifteen.    
  
Four years doesn’t objectively seem like a lot of years, but it feels like a lifetime.   
  
You snap out of a ridiculous menagerie of memories that all of this nostalgia stirs and focus your attention on dad, who’s just babbling at you about how he’d have washed your sheets if he knew you were coming, but that there’s plenty of dinner to go around because he’s been fueled on leftovers these days.   
  
“Leftovers every night? That’s no way for a man to live.” You joke, slipping your shoes off and lowering your backpack to the ground. You open the bag and The Mayor immediately goes trotting off. This is home after all, he probably needs to make sure everything is in order.

“Yes well, John is out with friends so often while he’s home. I never know if he’ll bring some home and they’ll want to eat too. And look, you’re here, so a father’s intuition is never wrong.” He’s beaming, oh god, he’s beaming like you’re Moses with the deliverance. You can objectively acknowledge that you don’t deserve it, and yet, it feels so good you just keep smiling. You pull off your messenger bag and plop it down.

As expected, he asks you just about a million and a half questions while the three of you eat. About your life, about your photography, if you’ve found any under-the-table jobs or apartments to stay at. He knows at this point not to ask if you’ll move home, because he knows you’re not going to. But he asks you just about everything besides that and the kitchen sink. It’s kind of endearing, but you’re also trying to focus on the taste of homemade food and the prospect of getting to sleep.

John stays quiet over this period of time. Not awkwardly so, but he’s texting, and getting obviously antsy about his plans for the night. He’s a polite person, though, so he still involves himself even as you clean up the dishes. It’s only when you and dad move your discussion into the living room by the fireplace that he decides it’s time to split.

“Alright, be safe please. Text me if you need me to drive you home.” Dad has worry etched into his face, like he wishes he could say more.

“Sure thing, but I told you I’m not drinking tonight.” John responds, jamming his phone into his pocket.

“I know, but it’s just in case. I don’t want somebody who thinks they’re just sober enough to drive taking you home. I’d rather do it myself.” John starts to make waving gestures at dad, somewhere between “I know” and “Get off my dick”.

“Later, dad. Later, Dave.” He says, leaning back and turning away to leave the house.

“Bye, love you.” You and dad both say it, but with different inflections. You need to clarify that. Yours is teasing and satirical. Dad’s is genuine, and the source material of your satire. Despite this, he doesn’t seem offended. He only turns to you with a warm smile. It’s hesitant, there’s something behind his teeth.

“Aight padre, what’s your damage?” You ask with a little grin. He takes a breath like he’s about to deliver some news.

“I met this woman.” He starts, much to your amusement.   
  
“Wow, dippin’ your toes into the dating pool again? I’d have never thought, all things considered.” He seems confused for a moment before he goes on.

“Ah, no, I’m still very much enamored with Ms. Lalonde. Circumstances just aren’t right. This woman isn’t any kind of romantic interest.” You simply raise an eyebrow and wait for him to continue because you honestly have no idea where this is going. “Right. So, I had helped her set up her business from the ground up. She was part of a group before but she had some passionate views on her profession and was terminated. And I just felt so sorry for her that I helped her figure it all out free of charge.” You sit back in your seat. At this point you can’t tell if he’s front-loading or if he’s just telling a story because he doesn’t know what else to say to you.

“Well, you are the chaplain of charity.” You comment. He smiles with a little glint of pride.

“Thank you, Dave.” His hands fidget on his knees. “Anyway, it’s been a few months and with my help her business is going quite well. She has a lot of clients.”

“That’s great, are you really surprised though?” You joke.

“Ah, no, but there is one thing. See, now she’d like to pay me back. I’ve told her I won’t take her money.” You nod in understanding. You don’t understand. “I think…ah…” He looks away sheepishly. “I think she could really help you, actually. I told her I’d ask you if you’d like to take advantage of her services, because I have no present need for them, but you’re like a son to me--”

“Whoa, okay, okay. Now the way you’re talkin’ makes her sound like a woman of the night and you and I both know that’s not what you’re tryina give me here.” His cheeks turn pink at the observation.

“Heavens, no. I admit I was being cagey, but I didn’t intend for it to sound...oh, gosh, Dave…” He chews on his lip for a moment. “She’s a psychiatrist. She specializes in psychotherapy.” He follows this statement with an awkward little clearing of his throat.   
  
“I’m fine.” Is your immediate response despite the long moment it takes to sink in. He thinks you need a psychologist. That’s so weird to you? You’re fine, you’ve always been fine. Does he think you’re unstable or crazy or something? You cross your arms over your chest, fingers curling in your hoodie. You don’t look at him. Instead, you look at The Mayor, who’s sleeping by the fire. You’re so tired, you just want to sleep.

“I know you’re fine, Dave.” He reassures. “You’re a bright young man. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with you, but I think that there are probably some underlying causes to the situation you’re in.” This again. Awesome.

“Yeah, the underlying causes are a shitty asshole brother, nothin’ else.” You want to make it clear, because it isn’t your fault that you don’t have what you need to function. Your birth certificate, social security card, or even the name of the hospital you were born. It’s not your fault.

“I realize this, but…” He doesn’t want to say what he’s thinking. You prompt him to anyway. “Well, I feel like it’s been so many years, and you’re an adult now, if you called him he might give you what you need.”

“Yeah well, I’m not talking to him. You know I refuse to.” 

“I know. And I feel like maybe, if you spoke with this woman she could help you push past some of the fear--” 

“It’s not fear.” You snap. Your eyes burn. Your throat hurts. “It’s not fear. I shouldn’t have to ever talk to him again to live my life. That’s what I’m doing, and I’m. I’m doing a good job, okay.”

“...Right. I’m sorry. You’re right. You shouldn’t have to talk to him again. I understand.” He nods at his own words as he says them, like you needed his verbal confirmation for something you already knew. “Still, if you need someone to speak to, or even some sort of absolution about why your feelings are the way they are, she can help. All you have to do is tell me, alright?”

You inhale, and hold it. Just for a few seconds before you blow it out of your mouth slowly. He’s just trying to help. You trust him, you know him. You know he only wants to help. Your white-knuckled grip loosens in your hoodie.

“Yeah, alright.” You nod. “I’ll think about it, okay.”

“That’s all I want, just for you to think about it.” You would, ordinarily, tell him okay, you thought about it, class dismissed. He seems really invested in the idea, though. You might even go to just one appointment, just to ease his mind. But you don’t tell him that. You just nod and relax against the chaise for a few minutes.   


Its him that gets up first. He stretches, moves to give your cat a few pets on the head. He tells you he’ll launder your bed dressings in the morning, for now you can sleep in the guest room if you need to. You shrug, wave him off and tell him you’ll be fine in your stiff musty sheets for one night. It’ll be better than what you’ve had lately, at least.

Once in your room, you can feel that last little bit of stress leave you in an exhale. Dad has literally everything where you left it last. It’s like he’s always prepared for you to come home. On a different level, though, it’s sort of sad. Like you’ve died.

You kind of feel like you have. As you stroll through and your hand ghosts across your old turntables. As you look up at the old pictures strung to wire, as you reread some notes you took pinned up on the wall near some taxidermy. You feel like this was you, all of these things, your hobbies, your passions. They just aren’t present in you anymore. You don’t have the time or space or energy for them to be present anymore. So in a way, you have died, kind of. That isn’t the sad part, though. For the longest time you’ve played it off as circumstance. Oh, you’ll get back into it when you get a home, you’ll get a home when you find a good paying under-the-table job. But you never do, it’s starting to feel like it never will. You’ve started resigning yourself to the idea that you might actually just waste away into some mindless, ambition-less zombie until you die.

Your thoughts stop when you get to your dresser. Fingers curl around dusty, cool wood before you’re pulling back the bottom drawer. Inside, an indulgence you haven’t had in awhile.

Mother.

Fucking.

Pajamas.

“Yes!” You hiss with glee, pulling them out. FUCK that noise about anything you just thought. Literally none of it matters, because you have those nice warm microfiber bottoms with a soft cotton top. It’s too big, but that’s a good thing as far as you’re concerned. There are areas of your body that you think have permanent red lines and rash from how constricted they are on a daily.    
  
Once you’re free of all your clothes and covered in only the finest of soft fabrics, you flop over onto your bed and promptly bury yourself into it like a tick in skin. You will not be removed without force and death, probably. You can finally stretch and roll and take up space and breathe without any discomfort whatsoever. You’ve never appreciated a bed so much in your entire LIFE.

You don’t have a lot of time to appreciate this one, either. Once your cheek finds a suitably comfortable position against your soft pillow, you’re done. You try your damnedest to revel in this pleasure, but it’s not very long until you’re out like a light.

Not a single bad dream to be had.


	5. Chapter 5

You have to admit that you’re just a little jealous of your best friend. She sits on the bar stool adjacent to where you’re working while Nepeta runs the cash register. In front of her, a big book of shit you’re not allowed to look at that’s mission-critical to her career. That’s the hardest part of her job, sifting through designers and pictures of their work and having to tell them that this or that isn’t going to make it in. Not to discredit her for her efforts, but her business seems so much easier to manage. This is done while sporting a creamy looking gradient of matte color on her pursed lips, and without smudging it off while she drinks her coffee.

“Stressed?” She raises an unreasonably well kempt eyebrow without looking up at you while you wait on the doubleshot you’re about to send out.

“What could’ve possibly given that away?” You mutter, pouring the two shots from their metal containers into a tiny paper cup and handing it off to a guy who tells you thanks for the doppio, emphasis on the doppio, like he was trying to impress you with his casual knowledge of proper coffee terminology. 

“A myriad of things that one would only notice if they knew you well.” She closes the binder she’s looking through and deposits it in her bag.

“And what about you, huh? New season coming up, I bet sitting around and pointing out what fashions you like the most is pretty fucking stressful.” You roll your eyes as you say it.

“No need to get snarky. And for your information, it IS, because it’s more than just me I have to consider. I’m endorsing an entire line and even if the whole line is perfect there’s always one piece that includes some sort of cheap, tacky trickle-down design element. It’s not the designers fault, a lot of them are inspired by tacky fashion in the first place.” She rambles, taking a wooden stirrer and pushing the foam around in her drink. “When designers do have a natural eye for the original and avant-garde, they hardly ever have the finesse that’s necessary in design.”

“Super,” You mutter flatly. “Do you have any more answers to questions I never asked and never cared about?”

“Not particularly. Going further would be breaching confidentiality but mainly I wanted to put my source of stress out there to make room to talk about yours, since we both know you would continue to deflect to me until I did so.” Well fuck, she has a point doesn’t she.

“I’m just,” You purse your lips to the side in thought. “Stuck? I guess. In a rut, kinda. Like, I do all my shit I need to do and I do it well, and I have all this energy for other shit but it’s like Return of the Brain Fog. I feel like I should be doing more.” 

“Sounds like an issue for your therapist.” She points out.

“Probably, but it’s not such a drain on my mood that I can’t try and figure it out on my own first.” You shrug. “I just don’t know what the next move is, y’know. I’m scared that if I try anything too big I’ll put myself in a bad place again.” You fold your arms over the counter and rest your head on them.

“I don’t think anybody wants to see you like that again.” She remarks. Of course, because being your best friend she had to bear your burdens alongside you when you tried to do the independent thing and wound up in way over your head.

“Yeah, I know, thanks for the fucking input though.” There is no real spit in the way you talk, though. You just don’t need to be reminded that you were lowkey insufferable during that time.

You remember wanting to be independent so bad, feeling so insecure about the fact that your dad basically gave you this job. You didn’t deserve or earn a living wage for what you did here, so you left. Making it on your own was not in the cards for you, unfortunately, not even in the cards of a psychic who will tell you what you want to hear for money. Luckily, your dad had you back no problem. Which of course made you feel like even more of a failure. Blah blah blah, tragic backstory, emotional turmoil.

Eventually you got over it by just throwing yourself into your work. Really proving to yourself that you’re not fucking useless after all. Apparently your dad took notice and you proved something to him too, because he retired and made you a salaried manager. 

But you’re starting to sink again. You feel like it probably has something to do with Dave, seeing the position he’s in. If you could help out or something, maybe--

“You should probably take some time to reflect on what it is you want out of life. I understand feeling like, you’re twenty one years old and you’re already where you’re going to be forever, but just don’t make any rash decisions like you did before. Maybe find some sort of undertaking. A hobby, or volunteer work. Maybe go on some blind dates or try to get back into the music scene. Occupy yourself, you sound bored and disillusioned. Nobody likes monotony.” You look up at her, and it’s the first time she’s made eye contact with you in a while. You sigh.

“Yeah,” Standing up into a stretch helps clear out some brain fog. “You’re right, you’re probably right.” You nod. “I wonder if this is how Dave feels, though. Like, it seems like he has to work a lot harder all the time, since he’s homeless.”

“Dave?” You glance over at her, now apparently receiving her full attention. “Dave who?”

“Uh, Strider I think. You know, curly hair, kinda dark olive-y skin tone. Blonde somehow.” You clarify. She looks puzzled.

“Yes I do know. You’re talking about my girlfriend’s cousin, correct?” 

“Uh, yeah?” You shake your head a little, shrug.

“He’s homeless?” Oh. She didn’t know, apparently. 

“Yeah,” You nod. “He does like street performing with his cat. You really didn’t know that?” You raise an eyebrow in surprise.

“No, I hadn’t a clue. Rose lost contact with him after he moved out but he assured her over and over again that he had a place to stay.” She is not in any way subtle about the way she pulls out her phone and starts texting. “I mean I knew he did the thing with his cat, but he always did that to pay for food when he lived with her. I assumed it was just a part of his income.”

“Well he isn’t contracted that’s for damn sure. It’s like a favor to him when we let him perform on our corner.” You say. “I mean it’s mutually beneficial but it’s not like I had to go call his agent and book him.”

“Mm.” Is her halfhearted response. You get the sinking feeling like maybe you said something you shouldn’t have. You hope you aren’t getting Dave in trouble.

But then again, is there really a whole lot of trouble Dave could get anymore in to? It’s not like Rose knowing about his situation would drive him to drugs, that would be a disproportionate response to the off chance that she’d find and lecture him. Otherwise, he’s already rock fucking bottom and underneath a hard place. You remember even talking with him the other day about his situation, and when you asked why he can’t just get a job he said he didn’t have an ID. Or the means to get one, for that matter. That just about shut you up because you remember your father telling you about when he came here, how difficult it was for him and the things he had to do. You reassured Dave that his self-employment is a damn good alternative.

Your attention is pulled away at a perfectly convenient juncture. You get started on an order that Nepeta took. Then another. Then another. And then two at once. A glance up shows that there’s a rush. A rush bad enough that people are lined up, and near the door too.

“Fuck.”

“Fuck is right!” Nepeta bounces around the space trying to get orders started while she takes the ones in line. You have to open up the second register. “You’re going to have to call in Caliborn.” You glance up and, yeah, she’s probably right. You don’t know what the fuck happened, but this is going to be hell if you try to do it on your own.

You step over to the area where you make the coffee and try to multitask, making people’s order and dialing Caliborn too. Out of your peripheral, you can see Kanaya surveying the cafe while you wedge the phone between your face and shoulder. It’s moving into not-good-working-space territory. She tells you she needs to go right as Caliborn picks up the phone so all you can do is give her a vague nod or else your brain might short-circuit.

“What the fuck. Do you want?” Classy. Best way to speak to your boss hands down.

“We really need you to come in if you’re not busy. Business just picked up and shit so--”

“Are you fucking. Kidding me. I’m with. My family. Could you pick a WORSE time. To call me in.” You hate his tone god you hate it you hate him why did you hire him.

“I know, fuck, I get it, but we’re going to have people walking out soon or even taking one look and leaving if we don’t get someone over to pick up the slack.”

“The slack is YOUR fault. For not hiring more people.”

“I really don’t have the time to debate this with you right now can you come in or not.” 

He makes you suffer through the longest, most disappointed sounding drawn out sigh you’ve ever had to endure.

“Fine. I’m coming. I’ll be there in five.”   
  
“Thank you so--” He hangs up before you can finish and you don’t have time to be mad, you just curse and drop your phone into your apron pocket in a surprisingly smooth display of reflexes.

True to his word, he’s there in five minutes on the dot. At least he’s punctual. He makes a good point of giving you the silent treatment unless absolutely necessary, though. You have him work on the orders themselves since he isn’t exactly the friendliest to deal with when it comes to customers. Once the line thins out enough to where Nepeta can take orders on her own, you make a frantic run to bus tables inside and then out on the patio. By the time you’re finished with that, there’s another influx of customers. Not too many, though, they do put in more food orders than usual so that keeps you pretty busy in the back of the house for about a half hour. It remains so busy up until close that you’ve determined that there has to be something going on nearby. A party, or event, or something. You and Nepeta lament and speculate on it enough that Caliborn joins in on bitching and for a few minutes you forget that you hate his guts.

That is, until it’s closing time and he hands you his apron.

“I quit.” 

“What!” You squawk. Nepeta’s mouth drops open. Then she groans, scrubbing at her face in distress. It only registers after she’s dismissed herself to bus and stack the tables on the patio that she just lost half of the parlay.

“Yeah, I’m not really into this. I thought it’d be fun but it fucking sucks. You suck, this place sucks, I pretty much hate the smell of coffee now.” You would punch him if you didn’t have security camera in your store.

“But we only have _ two employees _ . It’s the fucking  _ busy season _ .” You raise your hands and bury your fingers in your hair. You don’t give much of a fuck about the bet at this point, you’re just terrified of the idea of having to work another day like this without an extra employee.

“That’s your problem, not mine. Is it my fault you don’t want to hire people? Nope. That’s your problem.” Technically, you can hire more people, you just haven’t because in the summer business crawls. You had more employees before the busy season, but he wouldn’t know that because he was only hired two months ago. “Anyway send me my next pay stub in the mail, I don’t wanna have to come in and get it.” 

He punches out, takes his last little clock out receipt because he collects those for some reason like a weirdo, and then leaves. You almost do run after him and deck him in the back of the head when you see him shove violently between Nepeta and Gamzee, as if they were somehow in the way of him. 

You’re cool though. Everything is gonna be fine. Nepetas here to help you close, and Gamzee’s come strolling in to pick you up and take you home so that’s cool. 

“What’s up Karbro, why the long face?” He asks. He takes a look around and immediately starts helping you clean up by stacking tables and chairs. You just shrug. You know if you talk about it you’re going to have some sort of breakdown.

“Can we just finish this up? I wanna go home.” You just wanna go home. There’s a voice in the back of your head that reminds you that some people don’t have homes. You’re too tired to play the misery olympics right now. You swat it away by way of miracle. 

You finish up pretty quickly since Gamzee is there to help. Nepeta takes on the task of locking up for the night, so she takes the key and lets you go home. Thankfully, she doesn’t mention the bet or anything. You don’t wanna think about that right now, you don’t wanna think about your lack of employees or about how stressed you’re going to be or putting more people on the payroll instead of getting a nicer looking espresso machine. You just think about wrapping your arms around Gamzee’s midsection and holding on while his dumb little scooter zips down the street. You don’t even wear a helmet, you just rest your cheek on his back and close your eyes.

“So what even was all that motherfuckin fuss about.” At least he waited until you had taken your shoes off. 

“Depends on which fuss you’re referring to. Nepeta lost a bet, we lost an employee, the cafe was at peak business and probably will be until the end of spring, and Caliborn is, unsurprisingly, a huge douchebag.” Boom, boom, boom, you knock it all out one by one. You know for a fact that objective statements don’t make you feel any better, they just help you cope by glossing over the facts at face value.

“That’s uh….all bad news?” He isn’t really great at following context clues, but you’re not really giving him the background pieces of information. He probably doesn’t even know that it was only the three of you before.

“Well. The bet part isn’t I guess. Because she was betting against me so now I have a better chance of winning.” You mumble, sitting at your bar. He follows to do the same, and pulls out a dime bag and a bowl made of some kind of purple crystal too dark to be amethyst. 

“Don’t you like, win by some such default if she loses?” He asks, packing the weed into the bowl.

“No, it’s a parlay. So like, I bet he’d quit the next time we called him in unscheduled, and she bet it’d be a couple more times. If I lost I had to take someone to Easter weekend, if she did, then she’d have to take Equius.” The look he’s giving you says he isn’t following. “The second half of the bet was that I’d have a crush on the person she wants me to take by the time Easter rolls around. So, she lost the first half, but if I get a crush on the guy before Easter I won’t win either and she doesn’t have to bring Equius. If I don’t, though, then I win, and I get to see her try to introduce sweaty mcweirdo to padre.” He starts to nod in understanding while lighting his bowl and taking a deep hit.

“Harsh,” He grunts, trying to keep the smoke inside for a moment.   
  
“What, your skunk or the situation.” He shakes his head and exhales.  
  
“My shit’s smooth as butter don’t front motherfucker,” He hands it over and holds his lighter up to the bowl. You don’t really have time to protest, nor would you honestly. You lean in. “I meant all that about Equius. Be a little nicer to the guy my man.” You don’t want to waste a good hit, so you let a small roll of your eyes respond. 

“Whatever. He’s a creepy asshole and he practically radiates it.” You say it while you exhale.

“So who is the guy?” He sets down the bowl and reaches over the counter in a stretch. “The one you’re not supposed to catch feels for.”

“Uh,” You pull out your suddenly interesting phone. “Dave.” It’s food time. Definitely time for food. Not that the munchies sets in that quick but you need a reason not to be engaged in the conversation and you know the two of you will wind up getting food anyways. You always do when you smoke. You’re surprised he hasn’t said anything. When you glance up at him, you can see he’s searching for the joke in your face, but there is none, and his quickly contorts to bemusement.

“Ha!” He leans back, bracing his hands on the counter and tipping back in a way that makes your heart jolt. You’re about to chastise him but he interrupts you. “Brother you know you already up an’ lost that one.”

“I--what! Did not!” There’s no amount of protesting that convinces him.

“You’re motherfuckin’ toast, kiddo. Burnt n’ buttered over apple jelly.” He teases.

“Bullshit.” Bullshit because you don’t like him. Because liking him would seriously complicate the idea of wanting to help him, it even muddies up the sympathy you have for him. You don’t like the idea of liking him, because point blank, if you like him and offer him a place to stay, you’re scared of projecting your feelings onto him. Making him feel like he owes you in that capacity is probably shittier than letting him waste away on the street.

So you don’t fucking like him.

Gamzee lets you off the hook pretty easy, but only because you make a point of ignoring him after his initial prodding. You busy yourself by ordering food. A big ass thing of boneless wings and two large pizzas from Pizza Hut. You know for a fact that the both of you are going to eat all of it by the time you fall asleep, and then you’re gonna hate yourself in the middle of the night when it’s all turned to mush and you lay on the wrong side of your body. You don’t care. In fact, to spite yourself, you order a thing of jalapenos that you’re definitely going to throw into your wings on top of like two tablespoons of garlic butter.

You wind up directing the conversation onto his love life instead. You know he has a crush, but you also know he hasn’t made any moves toward the guy yet. Mostly because he has a history of not doing well in relationships at all. You try to be encouraging, but honestly you think he’s cut better for the friends-with-benefits dynamic. You won’t admit it to his face, but he can get entitled to a person when dating them.

Still, you try to curb your advice to him so that he expresses his feelings but takes it slow. If anything, taking it slow is something he understands. He’s so slow moving that you’re almost scared the pizza will cool off by the time he retrieves it and makes his way over to the nice bed-nest setup you’ve made in the meantime.

You do exactly as you’d planned. The two of you lay in your bed. He reclines with his arm around your shoulder, and you watch movies with your laptop propped up on whichever pizza box isn’t being subjected to carnage at the moment. You’re shocked to find that you can’t actually finish a whole pizza by yourself tonight. Normally you can, at least over the course of a couple of hours. It hits the two hour mark since you’ve inhaled eight wings and four pieces, though, and you’re still too full to function. Or maybe that’s the weed. Whatever.

You think you hit a food coma at some point, because Gamzee wakes you up, shifting you around so he can close your laptop and push the leftover pizza box and garbage away. He’s not gonna throw them away. That’s okay. The roaches win tonight, because you are completely incapacitated by the things you’ve consumed. You’re lucky you have half a mind to set your alarm before Gamzee rolls you over into a more sleep savvy position.   
  
You have a too-vivid dream about asking Dave on a date. As many times you ask, you don’t get an answer.


	6. Chapter 6

Your body wakes you up at seven in the morning. A quick survey of the fact that you are sprawled out on your bed and surrounded on all sides by walls, a floor, and a ceiling has you flipping your pillow over, rolling to tuck against the wall, and falling back asleep. You dream about the fact that you need to wake up, and proceed to dream several times over that you ARE waking up, without actually doing so. When you DO wake up, it’s only a quarter after and you can only think to be relieved that you’re finally out of the dream. Still, you’ve warmed up your spot enough that you need to roll over again, this time laying on your back with your arms stretched openly over your head.

A few more times you fall asleep for twenty minutes at a time, wake up, and then go back to sleep. It’s nine thirty when you open your eyes and actually feel alert enough to get out of bed. Faintly in the back of your mind, you know you’re smelling coffee that that that’s probably what woke you from the dead. Your priority is emptying your bladder, though, maybe even taking a quick shower. Yeah, you bet you can do that.

The house has shag carpet upstairs, it’s nice on your feet, which are lowkey disgusting from always walking on hard surfaces and being crammed into old shoes. Well okay, they’re not totally wrecked or anything but the balls and heels of them have started to peel, and your toenails are in serious need of some maintenance. 

And that’s the bitchin’ thing about having a decent father figure. You get to the bathroom just in time to cut off John, who is obviously hungover and calls you an asshole before lumbering off back to the downstairs bathroom from whence he came. In dad’s bathroom, you have access to a myriad of things that you know you’re more than welcome to. You consider, for a second, as your fingers wrap around a gold plastic orb that you’re pretty sure is a face cream container, that you could spend all day in here and eat breakfast cold in the afternoon and be happy. You won’t though, because you want to spend time with your family more than you want to spoil yourself with these kinds of products. 

You do make a mental note to fuck around with the actual basket of bath bombs near the tub. Not now, of course, but before you leave. 

For now, you strip down and turn the shower on. As you wait for it to get warm you dig an ancient tube of facial mask out of a different basket of products and absolutely proceed to slather it on your fast. It’s wetter than it should be because you’d gotten your fingers wet feeling the water, so it doesn’t wind up tightening like it’s supposed to. It tingles, almost enough to make your eyes water.

The showerhead’s pressure is so good. It’s hard enough to feel pattering against your back and shoulders in an entirely therapeutic way, but not so hard that it makes you nervous to let the water run over your face and wash away the almost minty feeling face mask. Dad apparently switched over to moroccan oil hair products recently, which is fine by you because the conditioner is a good alternative to oils that you would actually need if you took care of your hair the way you’re supposed to. When you’ve pulled yourself away from the shower, dried yourself off and redressed in your pajamas, you can smell the full aroma of breakfast permeating into dad’s bedroom.

“Morning, beauty.” John grumbles as you pull the kitchen chair out and take a seat.

“Mornin’, beast.” You shoot back, taking the fabric napkin that dad has wrapped up utensils in and draping it over your lap.

“Ew, Beauty and the Beast get married, Dave. Do you want to get married?” He nudges your foot and you nudge him right back, tryin to be subtle about it.

“Shut up. It was clever, you ain’t gotta nitpick. You’re just crusty cuz I got the bathroom first.” 

“Good morning, Dave.” Dad interrupts whatever John was about to use the sneer he’s wearing to accompany by pushing plates of food in front of the two of you.

“Mornin’ pops.” You sit back and survey the food in front of you. You’re not actually sure what it is, all you can tell is that it’s basically eggs over english muffin, but the yolk is all kinds of whipped up on top, or something.

“You sleep well?” He grabs his own plate. John digs right in, apparently not intimidated by the mystery food. Actually, he’s not really digging in you notice, he’s cutting up the food and mixing it all together. Gross. There’s a side of hash browns, so you start there until you can get a better idea of what’s going on on your plate.

“Oh, yeah. Bed’s perfect, even the stiff sheets.” You watch as Dad cuts into his. There seems to be a meat substance between the egg and the english muffin. You hope it’s beef

“Be that as it may, I’m still going to wash your sheets today.” You push your fork into the weird yolk on top, catching a chive on the edge and watching the oddly light yellow foodstuff drip down your fork. “You and John should find something to do today. It’s snowing.” You acknowledge him with a small noise while tasting the stuff on the end of your fork. It doesn’t taste entirely like yolk, actually, it almost has a mayonnaise-y sort of flavor.

“For pete’s sake Dave, are you an alien?” You look up at John, momentarily startled by the accusation. “Have you never seen eggs benedict before? You’re acting like a weirdo.” You scowl.

“Whatever, you’re one to talk with that disaster-mash situation happening on your plate.” You cut into your breakfast, watching yolk spill over the sides--apparently the yolk was still in the egg and there was just some yellow sauce on top. “I’ll try not to look too inhuman while I marvel at this got-dan aesthetic masterpiece happening before my very eyes, thanks.” You throw in.

“Tell me how it tastes, will you?” Dad asks, spearing the bite he’d just cut away. “I’d never gotten the hang of poached eggs until recently.”

“Yeah, color me surprised you didn’t go for stuffed french toast with fancy-berry reduction and a gold leaf garnish.” You bite the bullet--metaphorically of course. Literally, it’s more like biting into a salt block. A really salty salt block with a slight hint of vinegar. You’re far from an expert in eggs cumberbatch but it seems like vinegar wouldn’t be an essential ingredient in it. 

Dad is looking at you like he wants your feedback. You can’t, in good conscious, tell him he should stick to sweets. You make a pleased noise and nod your head, go for another bite of breakfast a la heart attack. It’s probably the egg, maybe the sauce. You have to chew it for a little while every time you take a bite, because your gag reflex has a hard time chilling the fuck out when something gross winds up in your mouth. The important thing is that dad is satisfied with this response, getting back to his own plate. You understand suddenly why John made such a mess out of his plate--he was diluting it.

You follow his example and he mercifully decides not to tease you about it. The rest of your breakfast goes down easier, though you’re tempted to neutralize the salt with some maple syrup. 

John doesn’t bullshit around like you do when it comes to taking a shower, and you know that. Despite being well aware that he’s going to be done really soon, you take your sweet time. You’re in your room, pawing through clothes that you decided were too nice to bring to the city with you. It’s almost like you knew even as you were moving in with Rose that at some point, you wouldn’t need these things. Still, it’s really nice that they’re here in drawers as opposed to in some storage tubs in the basement.

There’s a problem, though. You pull on a pair of skinny jeans that have defined crease lines from the places they were folded in. They’re comfortable, you think. Roomy, maybe a little too baggy. You take a few paces to the right to look for a shirt and they slip right off your hips and fall to the ground. That’s after eating, even, not even a full stomach would tighten those britches. Do you have a belt? You don’t think you do. You think back when you could go shopping for clothes you would generally pick items that were fitted to your body.

You’re interrupted from your observations about your frame by a little knock on your door. It’s John, who has managed to shower and get dressed in the amount of time it took you to ruminate about your pants.

“You wanna go to Crossgates, maybe catch a movie?” There’s still sleep in his eyes. You wonder if he sleeps in later now that he’s in college.

“Is there even anything good this time of year?” You hold your pants up by the belt loops and scan the area for something that could help--you find carabiner clips in a jar near your turntables. That works. 

“Not that came out this month, but Into the Woods is still in theaters.” You hook the clip around two belt loops, successfully tightening your pants. Hell yeah, you’re the master of innovation.

“Yeah, I could go for that. There’s like, ads all over the place for it.” You’re honestly down just because it’s got Meryl Streep in it.

“Yeah, that’s kinda what happens with large mainstream movies.” John rolls his eyes and ruffles his hands through your almost-dry hair as you pass. “Maybe we can do a little shopping too.” 

“Maybe  **you** can do a little shopping. My locker space is reserved for necessity.” You tell him. He drops the subject in favor of talking to dad, just telling him where you’ll be and whenabouts you think you’ll be coming home. Dad hands him a credit card--you’re not really surprised by that. If he wants to pay for a movie and some snacks it’s no skin off your dick.

The mall is as crowded as you thought it might be. Just enough people to put you on edge but not enough people to send you nope-ing outta there in a heartbeat and a half. At least the theater is a little better, because nobody goes to see movies this time of year, and the area is bathed in warm light over dark carpet. Noise is muffled, a dull hum of idle chatter hangs around instead of bouncing off the walls. It has a cozy, sort of lulling effect. You play some claw games that you get access to by unsubtly reaching into John’s wallet to jack a couple singles while he waits in line for the movie. Obviously, he doesn’t mind, but he says you owe him some of whatever you win.

To spite him, you decide to only play on the rubber ducky machine, which is not only play-til-you-win, but also only fifty cents per play, which effectively renders you with six rubber ducks. One you give to a little kid who can’t seem to get it. You give two more to John when you find him by the concessions.

“You’re a waste of talent, you know that?” He mutters, stuffing the ducks in his hoodie.

“In more ways than one.” You demonstrate with a grin by juggling the remainders for a couple of seconds before John snatches one right out of the air and causes the other two to drop. One which you’ve named Cubefriend(because she is made of cubes) hits your knuckles as you try to catch the other one, whose chocolate bunny facade gives way to a taunting smirk about your lack of dexterity.

“C’mon you fucking dweeb, let’s go find seats.” You follow him into the movie-terminal-cave area with your duckies stuffed in your pockets.

You’ll be the first to say that John is probably one of the worst people to watch movies with. He worships the same seven films--normally from a time where scoring was less of an art and more of a necessity--and is hyper-critical of every other film out there. He also fidgets like no other, moving around, getting up and down, checking his phone, picking at his clothes. It makes it really difficult to watch movies with him. 

At some point you’re starting to think that maybe some sort of less obnoxious alien species has pulled John’s skin over it’s body as a disguise. He doesn’t do any of these usuals while you’re watching. It’s so unsettling that you keep looking over at him to see if he’s really there. He is, all of his body language is the same as it always is, he even sticks his tongue out at you for staring at him, which is some kind of nervous reaction he’s always had. You reason that he probably has things going on that you don’t know about. School stuff, maybe.

Your internal clock isn’t perfect but it can’t be more than a half hour into the movie before he gets up. You block his way out with your legs over the seat in front of you. It doesn’t seem to pose much of a problem for him, though. He squeezes one of your ankles and you snap your legs close to your body, scowling at him like he just deposited a rotten fish into your lap. He says he’s gotta pee and he’ll be back soon.

He’s not back soon, though. You feel like a dog waiting for it’s owner when your thoughts start jumping to conclusions. Did he just leave you here? Is he hurt? Did he just meet somebody in the lobby and stop for a chat? Did he ditch you and you’re gonna have to walk home, only to find the door locked? You don’t know. You hold onto your legs and chew at your lip, trying to rationalize every chaotic thought your hellbrain conjures. Eventually, the movie ends, and you’re left wondering if you should get up and find him or wait for him here.

Obviously you get up, how stupid would it be to sit in the theater until it’s only you and some dude has to come kick you out for the next screening? You feel lucky and relieved when you spot him, sitting by a table in the mall, just outside the theater.

“Problem?” You mumble, sitting down across from him.

“Kind of, something came up with one of my classes--apparently he sprung a pop quiz that counted for like five percent of the semester.” He taps away on his phone, concentrated on the screen.

“Uh, yikes I guess?”

“Yeah, he’s a fuckwad. I think I’m gonna be able to get him to push it back for me so I can make it up tomorrow.” He shoves his phone in his pocket and glances up at you. “Anyway I also gotta go pick up somethin’ for my girlfriend.”

“Oh, cool.” You stand and straighten out your clothes since they managed to ruck up awkwardly around your body. Plastic seats are a blessing. “Let’s go.”

“Well--uh. It’s only going to take a few minutes and it’s kind of weird.” And just like that, you shrink back down into your seat. So much for hanging out.   


“Yeah man, no problem, go ahead.” You nod and wave him off, and he thanks you before trotting off to go get whatever he’s gonna get.

And that’s when you notice it. On the seat opposite John and next to you, there’s a phone. At first you think it’s John’s, but when you pick it up to give it back you notice it’s an iPhone, and John definitely has an android. 

You purse your lips as if trying to push back bad thoughts. It’s obviously new, probably from the Apple store. You press the button in the center--it’s got no lock code, and the background is some default stock graphic. Okay. Someone lost a brand new iPhone, no big deal. You’ll just turn it into the customer service kiosk. Or maybe you could look through the contacts and figure out the owner’s name. Or maybe just keep it.

You want to, you really fucking do. Especially when you open it and see there are no contacts or recent messages, it’s actually brand new. You could pocket it, and nobody would know you technically stole it. 

Except for the person you stole it from. 

And really, iPhones are fucking expensive. You try to think about what would happen to your mental state if someone stole your camera. You’d probably lose your goddamn mind. Not to mention as soon as the person finds out they’ll cancel their plan and then it’ll basically be useless.

You give a long suffering sigh and stand up. It’s not the worst thing that could happen to you but you think this is probably what blueballs feels like in a luxury context. You’re about fifteen feet away from the kiosk when John’s voice snaps your attention in his direction.

“Whoawhoawhoa Dave, wait wait, what are you doing?” He looks bewildered as he scrambles toward you and pulls the phone out of your hands. You probably look just as bewildered.

“Uh, I found this phone, I was just gonna put it in the lost n’ found.” You mutter.

“No, you should--uhg.” He runs his hand through his hair. “You should keep-keep it. Y’know. You need a phone anyway.”

“I’m not--what?” You can feel your lip curling up in disgust. “I’m not gonna keep something that isn’t mine, are you crazy?”

“I mean--” He groans, drags his hands down his face. “It’s. It is. Yours. It’s yours, it’s your phone. Dad-dad wanted you to have a phone.” He seems embarrassed. You cross your arms over your chest and wordlessly demand an explanation. “He told me to, okay?” He says. “Told me to take his card and get you a phone and add you onto our family plan--we have an extra slot anyway because he can’t get a family plan for two so he wasn’t getting y’know full use out of his bundle--a-and phones come really cheap if you add them to your plan because there’s just a little more added to your bill so you can pay it off over time.” His lips tighten into a line.

“Okay, so why didn’t you just tell me all of that in the first place? Why did you leave it all precariously perched on the seat near where you knew I’d sit?” You feel like you’re interrogating him. Maybe you are, but if his answer is what you think it is, you have good reason to be upset.

“I just. Knew you’d object or you wouldn’t take it like even now I bet you’re considering returning it.” You weren’t. “I thought you’d take it if it were just. Y’know, laying there.”

“So you thought I’d actually steal it. Like, sticky fingers an x-hundred dollar phone.” You feel anger starting a small boil in your chest. Only a small one, where the bubbles are small and rise in sporadic places in a uniform line.

“No! I mean, yeah, but not like criminal steal.” His cheeks are getting pink and his posture defensive, hand going up like you’re gonna hit him. Like you’d hit a person, ever.

“Oh, that makes it so much better. What kind of steal was I gonna do?” Regardless you can feel your fists balling up, nails clawing at your shirt.

“I don’t know! Like, survival stealing. Like Jean Valjean style loaf of bread situation.” 

...And then you deflate. Somehow all of the anger is sapped out of you. Probably because he really only meant it in a genuine way. You just can’t stand the idea of being a criminal on top of being a bum.

“A phone is not--uhg--not something I see as a necessity, John.” You groan, rubbing at your eyes. “And I’m not a French pauper--god, you’re such a dork.” You look up at him, and he still seems embarrassed and maybe a little panic-faced. “It’s fine, it’s okay. I’ll take the phone.” If you know dad at all, he’ll keep you on the plan even if you don’t take it, “just in case”.

John relaxes a little and hands the phone back to you, giving a grin that might be nervous but is mostly just goofy. You smile back.

“Thanks.” Your head drops a little so you can look at the phone better. It’s really nice now that you’re allowed to think of it as yours. It feels heavy, and you turn it around in your palm to look at the back. 

“I know you’re not into people spending money on you but y’know, phone cases are kind of worth the investment. We could go look at one of those kiosks? It would just really suck to drop that thing y’know.” You nod and let your feet carry you to walking next to him.

You wind up buying a salmon colored one that doubles as a wallet. Seems convenient. He fishes an Apple business card out of his pocket and puts it in the clear window of your wallet--it’s got a phone number scribbled on it. Your phone number.

The first hour that it’s in your possession you’re afraid to do much else with it besides check it for the time. The last time you had a phone was when you were barely into your teens. It was a tiny iPhone with a cracked screen and abysmal storage space. Of course, the service was turned off not twenty-four hours after you ran away. You didn’t miss it much, and didn’t ever feel okay asking dad for one after. You guess as a kid you didn’t really need one. Now that you’re over a year post-coop-flying, dad sees this as a necessity. Dude would pay your locker rent if you asked him.

Once John is done shopping around for his lady friend, the two of you sit in the cafeteria and he decides to show you which apps are apparently absolutely necessary. He knows you better than you think, actually. Snapchat--seems somewhat pointless, take pictures that only exist for a couple of seconds. He explains that this opens opportunity for short life updates and unflattering selfies. Instagram, which is definitely more your speed. A lot of the user base seems to be artists, photographers, and celebrities. 

“So like, if I wanted to use my good camera how would I get the pictures onto my profile?” You mumble, opening the app and flipping through it’s features.

“I don’t exactly know because I don’t have one, but probably by uploading the pictures onto a computer and then dropping them into a drive or cloud. Then you’d open them on your iPhone and upload them onto insta.” You look at him, befuddled.

“Aight, that’s kinda like emailing it to myself, right?” You poke through different accounts under the photography tag, following the ones you like as you go.

“Kind of? A Google drive would be synced to your Gmail address and it stores files in an internet cloud so you can access from anywhere, so yeah, it’s not a lot different from emailing it to yourself. Kinda like a usb stick you can access from anywhere, but more user friendly.” 

“...Right.” You shake your head. “Kudos to Google I guess? Seems like they run all the shit nowadays.”

“Basically--are you gonna finish your pizza?” You glance down at the pizza in question, covered in parmesan and, weirdly enough, not looking very appetizing.

“Nah. I’m full, or not hungry, or somethin’ like that.” The words feel weird coming from you. You’re always hungry, you could always eat, mostly because you never do. Luckily, John isn’t giving you the goopy doe-eyed poor fella needs a foodstuff that your friends at home give you when they’re eating and you’re not. He digs right in, and the two of you split after he’s advised you a little more on how to get your photography noticed if you wanted to get really involved with instagram.

Being home is the best excuse to fully exploit the fact that you’re literally always tired as fuck. When you get back, you greet dad and then excuse yourself to your room to take a nap. A nap! It’s a luxury you miss with every inch of yourself, being able to fall asleep in the middle of the day and waking up an hour or so later, or however long you need to pass the time. Today, it’s about two hours that you remain buried in a nest of blankets and pillows.

When you come back out, dad and John are watching the news in the living room. You kick your legs up as you plop down on the chaise near the coffee table. Aforementioned legs are now being slow roasted by a fake gas fireplace, but you don’t mind, it’s a nice feeling to relax to. News really isn’t something you miss about the civilized world. It’s almost all bad, and the only good stuff is come petty garbage that isn’t really news. You don’t care how cute that dog is, it doesn’t belong on the local news channel.

“John, would you heat up some leftovers?” Dad is the kind of weird fella who seems okay with smoking indoors. It’s almost like he comes from a different era sometimes. He tokes a dark-finished and metal inlaid tobacco pipe, plumes of smoke rising from both his mouth and the pipe. It makes the air thick and spicy-sweet. The darkness, the fire, the low mumble of news, it all makes you want to fall asleep again. You don’t, though, if only for the oncoming leftover alfredo.

It’s just peaceful, and ambient, and so, so good. Most of the time when you feel such a gap from your body and your mind, it’s because it’s all you can do from breaking. It’s empty, and lonely, vibrational. Right now, though, it’s full. Stuffed with warmth and good company and safety, swollen with tranquil, atmospheric white noise. Neither dad nor John interrupt this. You’re handed food, and you eat it idly and truly thoughtlessly before your empty plate is taken away from you. 

Your landing back on Earth isn’t a crash, either. It’s a touchdown, padded by dad asking you if you’re going to bed soon.

“Uh, yeah.” You nod. “Yeah.”

“Good. Well, goodnight, Dave. I’ll see you in the morning.” He says. He starts to get up from his armchair, setting his pipe down next to the ashtray.

“I, uh--” You sit up, getting his attention. “I gotta go. I mean, not right now. Soon, though. Maybe tomorrow. Or the next day.” You have to get out. You’re already too comfortable, too tempted to stay. If you stay for too long, he’ll start telling you you’re welcome to stay as long as you’d like. You’ll start feeling guilty for thinking about staying semi-permanently, guilty for staying longer, and then guilty for getting his hopes up and leaving.

“I know.” He sounds disappointed, looking down at the floor and nodding curtly. You don’t want him to be disappointed in you. He understands, you know he does, but you still blurt it, as if it’ll save you from the false cross you feel he is with you.

“I’ll see her.” His head snaps up, surprise on his worn features. “I’ll go see the uh. That chick who owes you a favor. I’ll go talk to her. Next time I visit. And I won’t wait so long to visit, I’ll drop by sooner.” His smile is borderline grateful, thick hands clasped together like he can’t contain his joy.  
  
“Thank you, Dave.” The crows feet at the corner of his eyes wrinkle. He seems so pleased. You still feel nothing, but you’re glad he isn’t disappointed. “I am so proud of you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry it's a week late guys! it's been a hellweek but i'm back on track. thank you guys so much for all the positive feedback! it's really helping me be productive on this.
> 
> you can see dave's duckies right here: http://corviiy.tumblr.com/post/150542651609/east-village-chapter-6


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dave comes back to Manhattan after a few days rest at Dad's house.

Dad spares you your dignity and lets you take the bus down to Manhattan instead of driving you all the way there. He does drive you to the bus stop, and he absolutely pays for your ticket, but that can’t be helped. You just tell him on repeat like some sort of broken record that you’re so, so grateful for the phone, because he simply wouldn’t have it if you tried thanking him for something as simple as a bus ticket.

You took a risk this time around, but you think it’s a pretty justified considering the fact that you have a phone now. Your headphones, the really good ones you used to use when mixing. They give you the perfect getaway during the bus ride. Another one of those super important apps John made you download was some kinda music one that even had underground artists and remix artists. You used to spend so much time listening to and making music back in the day that you forgot how much of a pass-time it actually is. You’re pulling into the bus station after what feels like barely an hour.

You don’t need to work much, but you still do. You made enough in Albany that you just want to save it instead of spending it as fast as possible so the goal is to make enough money for a hostel and some dinner before the end of the day.

The music helps. Not in the actual performance, but when you’re walking place to place. You feel less like a zombie with brain fog and more like a human being walking and doing things. You walk faster, you only notice because you’re breathing heavier, maybe a little sweatier than you’re used to. The Mayor is pleased by this, doesn’t have to wait around for you as much as he roams free outside of his carrier. 

Your first stop is outside a little breakfast joint. It’s actually more like brunch time, but a good time of day nonetheless. In this part of the city, it’s where old people bring their kids and grand kids to eat and look at all the pretty gift shops in the area. Of course that means a lot of kids who are much more interested in petting your cat than watching him do any kind of routine. But that also means grandparents that see you smile and talk to their grand kids, who wanna give you a little somethin’ for making the day.    
  
Though lucrative, your performance is short lived. A manager from inside the restaurant comes out, and though she seems to hesitate, she takes a break in your stride as an opportunity to shoo you off. You try to argue that you’ve done it out here before with no problems, but she’s just not havin’ it today. That’s fine, you thank her anyway and pack up your shit, let the mayor hop into his home and rest while you try to find a different area to work the lunch rush.   
  
As you’re walking down the street, someone catches your eye by a grassy little courtyard between two buildings. Not anybody you know personally, but they must recognize you on some level, because they’re waving you over. You think why the fuck not, they actually WANT your business, so why not give it to them. 

The people speak in rapid fire Spanish that’s way too quick for you to understand, the man that waved you over clasping a hand on your shoulder as he explains something loudly to a plump woman, who is unfolding chairs around a long fold out table. You do your best to express your confusion with the parts of your face they can see, so maybe they understand the universal gesture for “I don’t know what the fuck you’re saying”. A brief argument ensues before the man turns to you.   
  
“You’re the boy who does tricks with the cat?” He asks.   
  
“Uh,” You shift out of his touch and shrug off your backpack. Your cat comes out as you set it on the ground, because that’s generally the signal that it’s time for him to work. “Yeah, that’s me.”    
  
“My wife doesn’t believe me that you do tricks with him. Will you show her?” At this you laugh, feeling the tension leech out of you. You were worried for a moment that you might be in trouble.

“Yeah, no problem.” You nod and go digging in your messenger bag for some treats. “Alright Mr. Mayor, why don’t you go say hi to that nice woman over there? She’s been dyin’ to meet ya.” You point in the direction of the woman you’re talking about, and on cue he trots over, does a happy little circle, and then sits up on his hind legs and waves. The man next to you laughs full and hearty, shoots off some words at his Mrs. She looks down at your cat with her hand on her hip, then looks up at you.   
  
“What else can he do?” She calls.   
  
“Uh, he can dance, and have conversations, climb up really high and jump down from big heights. Lots of other stuff too, but I got a script he do it to.” You tell her, hooking your fingers together as you list off his talents.

“Mmm,” She looks back down at your cat with her nose scrunched, mumbles some more at her husband. “Okay. Okay, yes, good.” She nods firmly, like something is final, and marches off back into her building.

“Okay! Okay, good, now,” The man takes you again, hand squeezing your shoulder. It bothers you of course but not any more than if a friend did it. Your cat is pretty intuitive about things, if something were wrong, he’d let you know. “Three hours. I’d like to hire you. It’s my niece’s birthday, we found out one of her little friends is very scared of clowns and won’t come if we have one, so we had to cancel and find somebody else. Can you entertain kids?” His tongue rolls over the “three” in this bouncy way that sounds sort of familiar.   
  
“Uh, yeah. I just got down here from that brunch place you know? Up the street. Lotsa kids, they love The Mayor.” You nod, and he shakes your shoulder and grins, pulls you into this weird hug that is probably socially organic but just makes you feel all the more stiff and weird. 

Calm down, dude. You got this.    
  
You exhale a laugh and nod as he pulls back. He seems ecstatic, and that’s really all you could ask for. You offer to help them set up the party, and they let you help while bustling around. It’s all very rushed, so you try to keep up with their pace while The Mayor naps in the courtyard away from foot traffic.   
  
There’s this awkward little lull where you’re not doing anything but waiting for the party people to arrive. Once they do, it’s just the little girl and her parents. You make sure to greet her and tell her happy birthday, show her a few good tricks that The Mayor can do. You have a designated spot, and you’re still doing tricks for her when some of the other kids arrive.    
  
You take it as approval, they crowd around you and ask you questions while you have him do tricks. Most of them really want to pet him, all of them try putting their hands on him regardless. He handles it with a lot more grace than you do, thank god. Your favorite part, though, is when you let them give him treats. For a moment they feel like they’re the most important person because this little black cat is doing what they say.   
  
You think even if you had a house and a job, you wouldn’t stop going out to do this. The Mayor makes people’s whole day sometimes. Nothin’ beats that. 

You don’t even notice how long it’s been, but the parents start to round up the kids for food and presents. You look to the guy who hired you for guidance on what to do next, if you should leave or what. He just shakes his head, puts his hand up as if to say stay as he walks up to you.   
  
“Wait til the food’s over with, ‘bout a half hour so the kids can say bye to you, bro. Have some food if you’re hungry, grab a plate.” He pats you on the back and points to the plates and plasticware. You’d feel bad about takin’ food for free but it’s so obvious they’ve made extra to accommodate people. Like HELL you’re gonna pass that up.

You don’t really know what everything is called, but a lot of it involves beef and chicken, spice, and rice. There’s also some kind of casserole with plantains and ground beef. That’s kind of your jam, you cut it up and dip it in some tangy mystery cream sauce, and mostly fill yourself up with that and this sweet yellow rice that has peppers and peas in it. 

As you eat, you breathe in your surroundings. You really look at the kids, and the parents. The chatter, the family, the atmosphere. You take it in and for a moment, you try to insert a small version of yourself into the scenario. The thing that’s hardest to reason is that the kids actually like the food. Your diet was so reliant more or less on packaged chips that you couldn’t imagine thinking this food was appetizing as a kid. Which isn’t to say it’s not appetizing now, actually, your stomach growled pretty violently when you’d seen it. No doubt it tastes amazing too.

Things go pretty much according to plan. When it’s time to leave, the kids all get to say goodbye to the Mayor, and then you pack him away into his u-pet because he should be able to get a break for a while after working so hard. The man who hires you comes up to you on your way out of the courtyard.

“Whoa hey wait, hang on a second, bro.” He digs around in his back pocket and hands you an envelope. “We were gonna give that to the clown, but since you took his place, it’s yours.”   
  
“Oh, uh, some of the parents tipped me already.” You try to hand the envelope back.   
  
“Nah, nah don’t worry about it. You helped set up, made the kids happy. My wife didn’t think it’d go over that well.” He won’t take back the money, but his hand goes onto your shoulder again. “Kid, listen. You have a business card? An agent?”   
  
“Uh...no.” You shake your head. “I’m not really all about that.”   
  
“I’m just sayin’ you could make a lot more money on contract. I wanna recommend you to the other parents but I can’t do that if you got no way to contact.” He shrugs and makes some indecisive gesture with his hands.

“I have a number you can get me at.” As if to prove it, you pull out your phone. 

“That’s good for now, but you should look into some business cards, man. Get yourself a little business goin’.” He pulls out his phone and hands it to you. “Just put your info into this, ok?”

It takes you a minute, an actual full blown sixty seconds to figure out where to put your number in on his phone. It’s been such a long time since you’ve done this that you just take forever. You also have to keep opening your wallet and looking at the card that has your number on it, but once you do you hand the guy’s phone back to him.

“Great, awesome. We’ll be in touch, ok?” You nod, thank him. 

Before leaving you give the birthday girl one last wave, a smile, and she yells thank you at you and goes back to playing with her friends. Cute. 

You’re walking back down, nearing the hostel you normally stay at. You figure you should probably get there before dinner time if you want to nab a room, it’s already pushing it being out past noon. You have to stop, though. Stop, take a break, sit at a bench. You let The Mayor nap while you fiddle around with some music. You want to count your money but you’re a little weary. Scared that you didn’t make enough money and have to dip into your Albany savings, and have to risk working past an appropriate check in time.    
  
You wish you could just fucking relax.   
  
But if you DO need to work still, you’re not helping yourself by procrastinating with your money. Sighing, you open up your bag. After shooing the Mayor out of his napping place, you dump everything you made from the brunch cafe and party tips onto the bench. You pull out the envelope and set it down too--it feels light, so you’re not expecting much. You also place your Albany earnings in a separate pile so you can start from there. You like to recount.

As expected, Albany’s got you at three-hundred and four dollars, just like you counted before. They don’t like to give change up there, you notice. You start counting your tips first; ten, twenty-five, fifty, a hundred, a hundred twenty dollars and sixty-nine cents. You take a moment to snort. That brings you up to four hundred twenty four dollars, and sixty-nine cents. You’re amused if only because it’s just over 420.   
  
Then, you take the money from the envelope. You’re expecting a couple fifties, maybe. Nope. You open it up and find three crisp, flat, fresh from the bank Benjamins. You gape,  speechless at the generosity, then at the fact that clowns apparently charge a hundred dollars an hour. Suddenly, you’re on the ground, laughing like you haven’t laughed since you were a kid, breathless and tearing up because not only did you earn exactly four hundred and twenty dollars and sixty-nine cents today, but you’re also currently in possession of nearly seven hundred and fifty dollars.

You look like you’re out of your goddamn mind. You don’t care.

This could get you two weeks in the hostel if you just ate cup o’ noodles and that’s if you decided to be lazy and not work. That’s so good. It’s not unusual for you to make between fifty and hundred fifty dollars a day while working, but all of it goes into your day to day. Nobody realizes that staying in a hostel and buying food takes up so much money. 

You get yourself together while the Mayor wanders off--probably to go to the bathroom--and start sorting your money. You put the smaller bills on the bottom and the larger bills on top, so that when you fold it all to tuck away into your wallet the smaller bills show. Force of habit, even though anybody taking your money would regardless of how much there was. The change goes into the change pocket in your messenger bag. 

Briefly, you consider working still, and not turning into a hostel until you’ve reached 1k. That’d sure be somethin’, but it wouldn’t be an easy somethin’. You’re riding the “I’m not a total piece of shit” high so you treat yourself to going straight to the hostel.

You check in at the front desk and put a down-payment on one more night. As you turn to head upstairs, you are suddenly a face full of bright pink and jubilant yelling. You have to tilt your head up to see the culprit’s face--not like you had to see her to identify her.

Roxy Lalonde is six foot three, gorgeous, and carries the same recessive gene that makes your eyes red--only hers are more of a pink color. She’s your cousin, her mother and your father being twins, apparently. Not that you can confirm. She too is half Rroma, but her skin, like Rose’s, is much darker, even though she and Rose are only half sisters and her dad is Romanichal and not Balkan Rroma like your mom. 

You’re not sure if it’s because her family is more connected to their heritage or if it’s because she was raised by her father while you were raised by your brother, a generation away from your late mom, but she seems to think you can actually keep up when she speaks really fast in Rromani at you. She also doesn’t seem to understand that despite her mom and your dad having a ~thing~ for handsome Rromas, their significant others were not from the same linguistic branches; so your broken Slavic Rromani-English hybrid dialect and her clear, practiced UK Romani mix about as well as oil and water. Still, she likes to practice, she doesn’t want her culture to be “lost”, so you humor some conversation even though your usage is broken.

“Sastipe chej,” You say as you clasp your hand with hers and she laughs, bringing you into a hug. 

“Chej heheh, I’m more a Bibi by now don’t you think?” She rubs your back.

“Oh, shit. It was your birthday last Friday whadn’t it.” You comment, pulling back. That's right, you tend to forget that she's actually an adult.

“How kind of you to remember and reach out to me.” She teases you, jabbing you in the side as she does. “Anyway, that was a joke, you best not start calling me that.” She has an accent. You don’t, not a rromani one. “So’i nevo?”   
  
“Kanchi, same old shit as usual. Kako Mayor si mishte, got him some new treats. He likes them.” On cue, they Mayor comes out of your bag and onto your shoulder. He’s a big fan of Roxy, and she loves him too because she’s about the biggest cat person you know.

“Sastipe Kako Mayor,” She greets, letting him into her arms and cradling him gently.

“What about you, sar san? Sar si sogodi?” That specifically sends her off on a rant, not necessarily a bad one but she talks so damn fast you can’t understand half the shit she’s saying. You catch most of it, though. She tells you about how she got promoted and doesn’t have to do anymore on-site work, which makes you wonder why she’s here.

Roxy is a social worker, and comes to hostels mostly to stake out for the homeless that she can help. You sometimes wonder if she took up this career because she wanted to help people like you, even though she knows your issue with legal info. You chalk up her presence as her coming to pick up her paperwork here though or maybe say goodbye to some staff.

“Ah well congrats Miss Director,” You congratulate her, grinning to show your support. “Sar si e tjiri familija?” 

“Oh, so good! Mom is out of hospice, we decided to bring her home--I know you didn’t grow up close to her but I’d appreciate if you visited her before. You know. Oh! Callie is pregnant! We’re expecting in May! Again, you better be there! Or at least come to her shower. Rose is--” Her face goes blank. “Oh! Ehm. Rose, that’s right.” She laughs, scratching the back of her head. “Rose is he--”

“David Alexander Strider, where the HELL have you been?” You turn your head to the source of anger. You’d probably look like a deer in headlights if it weren’t for your shades. You probably do anyway.  
  
Rose Lalonde stands in the doorway, arms crossed and looking so much bigger than you know that she is JUST because of the look she’s giving you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> merry christmas ! we'll see if i can get back into the groove. i at least want to finish part one before i hang up the story.


	8. DISCONTINUED

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Info on why East Village is being discontinued.

Howdy, everybody!

Long time no update, huh? So here's the deal.

I am no longer invested in Homestuck.

I know, that kind of sucks, but East Village has been a huge labor of love for me for so much longer than I've been publishing this fanfic. It was originally going to be a fancomic, and because I didn't have the energy to make a 40+ chapter fancomic, I made it a fanfic instead. Turns out I didn't have the energy for that either, especially now that I don't really like Homestuck too much anymore. I don't want to devote THIS MUCH time towards Homestuck, It's already been around a two year process and I don't want to drag it out anymore. Davekat in and of itself, I may spend a little more time with. Meaning, I may still post some shorter Davekat fics here and there and I certainly will still draw it occasionally.

More importantly, the reason I'm actually making an update here saying all this instead of just orphaning the fic is because in the time I've been writing the outline and fleshing out the story, I've realized it's actually a deeply personal work of mine that I don't want to abandon. It's been a method of coping and expressing myself for a very long time! This story is really important to me still. So I'm going to be making my own story from it. The characters and relationships will be reimagined so that it suits an original work, but the basic plot will stay in tact. (That is, traumatized homeless boy with circus cat and trust issues being taken in and subsequently falling in love with first generation Mexican-American barista whos slumped in life and learning how to relationship. It also still takes place in East Village, Manhattan.)

I am presently not sure if I'll ACTUALLY publish what comes of this. Ideally, this will wind up as my first major project in storytelling; ideally, it will be a comic. But I don't know! Life happens, and I might not make it that far, but I'm certainly going to try. I'll keep you guys posted about it. In the event that I do see it through, I'll remove this fic before I start publishing, but again, IF that happens it'll be a while from now.

Thank you so much for sticking with this fic, bookmarking, commenting, and leaving kudos. Your support has been so encouraging, and is part of the reason I want to adapt this into my own story. 

Best Regards,

corviiy


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